


The Search...and Falling.

by orphan_account



Category: D.Gray-man
Genre: Crisis, Discrimination, Drama, Ethnicity, Gen, Identity, Insanity, M/M, Murder Mystery, Religion, Suspense, character centric, near poverty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-28
Updated: 2012-10-06
Packaged: 2017-11-10 22:50:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 23,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/471575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Human..." he coughs. "People's memories," he amends, "isn't always reliable. Witnesses identify the wrong man, respond to outward influence and investigator's inclinations. If asked again," he pins me to the spot with a stern gaze. "Someone else might conveniently remember you after all."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

_The Search_ by smilingcrescent **Prologue**

 

The feel of hot flesh under me—a body. Who?

My gloves are tight against my hands. The strangest thing, though, is the cold flash spreading from my neck to my sternum—arresting my heart and then releasing it. 

I shake.

My vision goes black and then white—I’m not breathing—and I tremble from the strain of it. My whole self could be comprised of apprehension and heat. 

Someone moans. It’s not a voice I know—but I can feel it reverberating up my arms and in my chest. Like a flurry of tremors and spasms, and my hands loosen just for a moment.

A gasp. A spluttering cough, and something wet seeps through the cloth of my gloves. There’s a moment of confusion before I manage a shaky breath. 

Yes. That’s it. Just breathe…

When my vision returns to me, it’s dark. Past the late evening and into early morning by the still, quiet air. I’m still hot and cold in flashes, but the feeling is returning to my hands.

My fingers clench around the soft flesh, and then travel down to the shoulders. The skin is smooth, but…

….I stop. 

Something is wrong.

It clicks in my mind, and the trembling resumes. The man before me is in a bad way. There’s the white foam about his mouth, the source of the wet discomfort on my gloves.

I stumble back from the man, unable to keep myself close. _What is going on?_

My eyes open.

...but everything 

(no,no,no,no,no) is the same.  


* * *

The curtains sway in the cold night breeze.

A man lies on the ground, reaching for the door handle. A shadow falls over the window. It slides open without effort as a second man curiously watches the first make his progress inch by inch.

The man on the floor twitches, his body moving woodenly. Saliva slides out of his mouth and his eyes unfocus. But still, he moves.

The second man watches a moment longer and makes a tsking noise. He bends to fit through the opening, his feet sounding lightly on the wooden floor. The intruder hauls the man up by the throat before he can reach either the door or the knapsack left beside it. 

The intruder smiles sadly, as though he is sorry for any discomfort. He speaks but the words are lost in the breeze.

 

 

In the darkened sky, the moon smiles down on the place, and somewhere, a song breaks.

Time will wait for but a moment. 

 

Soon, all will fall into place.

* * *

tbc....


	2. In the Quartered District

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Allen and Kanda go about their daily lives in the Quartered District.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Quartered District is modeled after the Liscenced Quarter, an official red-light district in Edo Japan. It's also reminiscent of the Dowa (also called Burakumin, Japan's feudal outcast group) communities, who were usually pushed out of the village in times past. (Please ask if you want to know more.)
> 
> Also, for this story's purposes, the Noah is a group of people, not just 12 apostles. ♥ If you still have questions after reading, ask away. I'll try to incorporate the answer. (More authors' notes in the comment section.)
> 
> Now, without further ado...

_The Search_  
 **Chapter 2** by smilingcrescent

(The previous morning in the Café, Allen)

“Here you are sir, one black coffee and chicken sandwich,” I call out from the counter, setting the coffee onto the tray.

But of course, this customer doesn’t want to pick up his own food. “Allen,” Cross calls, his voice low and smooth. “Just set it down over here.” He taps the table with a finger. His eyes and smile are sharp. He’d rather badger me into delivering it to his table, like this were some sort of fancy restaurant instead of a run-down café in the quartered district. I almost prefer him drunk.

But the shop isn’t crowded—it never is at ten in the morning, since everyone is either at their day jobs, or hibernating at home. So I sigh, and grab the dust cloth and the tray. I weave between rickety tables, pausing at Marian Cross’ table to give it a cursory wipe down. I set the tray down gingerly, and give my best polite smile.

“One black coffee and chicken sandwich. Thank you for your patronage!” My smile feels stiff, but I hide it with a bow.

Today’s shift is an easy one, and isn’t likely to get busy until much later. The couple in the corner is quietly working out the details of a plan, it looks like. Seeing how they touch parts of the table, tracing a line and marking something with a napkin or a cup. From here, it looks pretty much like a job in the works—so they won’t give me much trouble at all. Too busy planning. It’s only Cross that I have to worry about.

I turn, bee-lining to the nearest table. I wipe this one enough to make the surface temporarily shine, and check the seat of the chair for crumbs or stains. In this part of town, no one is going to worry about the age of the furniture, but I try and keep the place clean nonetheless. While I work around the surrounding chairs and tables, Cross chews his sandwich. Perhaps annoyed by my dodging any small talk with him, Cross takes another bite while watching the door, his expression non-assuming.

Right on cue, the door opens, and a woman enters, her shoulders hunched into what little warmth her lacy shawl offers.

I swallow slowly, feeling a pang of nervousness. Cross may be happiest among women, but they also cause him a great deal of trouble. My stomach knots, a sense of dread creeping up over my limbs. I want to trust him—to trust her, but somehow I just can’t manage it.

“Tehan, darling!” Cross calls, making the woman pull the lace higher up around her neck and shoulders.

The shawl’s really not warm enough to help against the autumn chill, what with too much of her skin is showing—shapely legs barely covered at all, and her corseted waist gives accent to her figure. Dressed like that, she stands out wherever she goes, and she gives a wary look over the shop, making her seem worn and tired. But her expression softens when she sees Cross.

“Marian,” she sighs, clearly relieved, if not amused. “I never figured you for the café type.” Laughter makes her tone sound like bells even when the circles under her eyes are showing through her makeup.

Ever the gentleman, Cross chuckles in return. “Have a seat, Tehan. What will you have? Tea or coffee?” I can imagine him standing, pulling out a chair for her as though she’s a gentlewoman, and smiling a devilish smile that snares most women’s hearts.

I clench my teeth, cleaning the tables in earnest, doing my best to ignore my teacher’s shameless flirting. Maybe if I look busy he’ll leave me out of it. I don’t want to be used as a pawn between the two.

But his voice can be heard even in a battle, I’m sure. “Allen! Bring the lady some tea—with milk and sugar. And some of that vanilla custard.” His voice books no argument.

I try fruitlessly to transform my pursed lips into a passable smile, but my efforts only get an amused look from the lady and a ruthless grin from my teacher.

I make myself busy behind the counter, measuring tea leaves into a strainer and pouring hot water over them. While it steeps, I open the fridge and scoop out some vanilla custard into a whimsical glass also used for _kakigori_ , shaved ice with syrup. Humming a dark ditty under my breath, I check the tea, and pour cold milk into a tiny pitcher.

“Ma’am,” I call, “Would you like one lump or two?” My tone feels hallow and false.

Tehan chuckles, hiding her teeth with her hand. “Two, please,” she answers, glancing at the other party. But they don’t look up from their discussion. “I see what you mean,” she says to Cross. “He really is clueless, isn’t he? You’d never think a Noah would be so naïve.” 

My left hand twitches, almost spasming around the sugar spoon. I touch the glove with the softest touch, wondering if I should try bath salts or muscle relaxing techniques. Flexing my finger sends a sharp pain from elbow running all the way up my shoulder and to my back.

I’ve been caged up in the Quartered District for a year and still haven’t gotten used to people recognizing me as a Noah just from looking at me. But with the Noah section of town being here, of course they recognize some trait. Just like the Noah recognize something human about my features or actions. Neither one nor the other, but something in between by birth or upbringing.

“You don’t say?” The woman’s voice bubbles up, light and sparkling as glass. “But don’t the Noah have magic?” She stifles her giggles, glancing over at me in her mirth. “He really just took off with your wallet and just ran off? You’d think he would have tried an illusion or something.”

“Yup, and he ran straight into a police officer, the little brat.” Cross finishes, his teeth white and shining by the dim light coming in from the window.

My ears burn. I set the tea strainer on a little dish, add the sugar and lay two spoons on the tray. Memories, old and worn as they are, still have power over me.  
“He fixed that officer with his big grey eyes and looked as innocent as can be, for all that he just stole my wallet.”

I set the tray down, anger burning in my gut. “Will you be paying in cash then, General Cross? I’m afraid your tab has gotten too high for me to add anything else on without a down payment,” I smile, bowing again at the waist. Really his tab isn’t more than a day’s wages, but there’s enough truth and past history in the lie that any casual acquaintance would believe me.

Cross’s cheeks flush rosy, but his smile doesn’t waver. “Now, now, kid, we both know that is an exager—”

“Don’t worry, Marian,” Tehan smiles gently. Her eyes crinkle with amusement. “I’ll be paying my own way, young man. How much was it?”

I tell her the amount, confident that Cross has lost more in this woman’s eyes than I did by his little story. If I can’t win back my own pride, I’ll settle for taking his down a notch or two. My smile doesn’t feel so tense as I make my way back to the counter to write up a receipt.

Today is a good day after all.

* * *

(The Noah’s Church)

On my way home, the weariness of the day spreads over me. A numb feeling spreads over me, settling into my limbs like an old friend. The feeling is familiar — like the ache of a wound so old that you forget about the pain of it.

The streets are narrow, and the buildings are a chaotic mess of design and style, but it’s clean, and people are more-or-less friendly. Here in the Noah area of the Quarter, there’s more greenery, too… With a less dense population, there’s more room for aesthetics. The houses are mostly white-washed or done over in colorful stucco, and most people have a garden in the back. It’s unheard of in the rest of the Quartered district, but for the Noah, who can’t live anywhere else in the city, this is home or good enough, so they might as well make it how they like it.

Like the church… There’s a ring of tall trees blocking the building from a passersby view, offering shade and privacy. My pace slows almost unconsciously as I consider the steep walls and abstract sculptures. I remember the stories Mana used to tell me, how the strong looking one represents the God of the Sun, and the God of the Moon is the beautiful, almost delicate one.

There’s a flickering light in the corner of my eye, and I turn to look. An eerie glow extrudes from under one of the tree’s branches. Tales of will o’ the wisps and _kitsune-bi_ , foxfire, come to mind, jumbling in my thoughts like a thrown dice. 

_Den-o, den-o, I must get back to my den-o,_ one of the many songs I sang with Mana in England …

I shiver in the autumn breeze, my body pleasantly tingling with remembered stories of murder and deceit wrapped in rhyming verses.

The light multiplies, but then I realize—it’s not multiplying so much as it’s moving so fast as to appear as many lights in my eye. It’s not just a light, I realize, but a candle flame, and the magical fire is like a fallen star.

The enchanted flame spins to a stop right before Road alights, her rounded black shoes touching down lightly. She throws herself into my arms, circling me in a hug so fierce you’d think I’d been gone a week. She kisses both cheeks.

“Allen!” she chirps. “Ne, I want to go eat cake!” She tucks her chin in; the move makes her eyes seem larger and her mouth like that of a little girl’s. “You’ll treat me, right?”

I attempt to disentangle our limbs with limited success. “Hello Road ,” I begin. She relaxes her grip, and I’m able to smile down at her. “I need to—” she spins out of reach while I’m talking, and I slow down, wondering if she can hear at all. “—get a few things done before tonight…”

She pouts. “You’ve been having teas and puddings all day at work, and you won’t treat me now?”

“Road, I don’t get to eat any of the food…” I remind her.

“Liar-liar, pants on fire!” She exclaims, and her voice is like a bird’s. It’s hard to believe she’s more than twice my age. Instead of chatting slowly or trying to compromise like an adult might, she pulls my sleeve and lets me have an eyeful of her candy-pink tongue.

I wince. “Road, you’ve been eating lollipops all day again, haven’t you?”

Road giggles. “Did you practice today? Are you learning to control your arm?” She’s moved on to avoid a lecture I probably wouldn’t have given, but at least we’re not talking about cake anymore. “Everyone says you’re either going to be a great musician, or you’re going to flunk out entirely. But I don’t think you’ll flunk out, Allen. I think you just don’t practice enough. Cozy old job at a cake shop doesn’t give you much incentive, I guess…” Words spill out of her mouth, like the incessant chirping of a songbird.

I roll my eyes. “I am practicing, Road,” I mumble, and reach for her hand. She dances just out of reach with a giggle.

Thoughts of abilities that are ‘mine by blood and birthright’ spin and twirl in my head. The weight and expectation lies heavily on me.

“Do you want to go into the church?”

“I’ve been all day,” she complains, though she likely hasn’t. Tyki tells me she spends more and more time away from here, locked away in a magical city that few can enter.

I ignore her complaint, but offer a smile. “Later then. I’m to play in the evening for the moon viewing…”

Thoughts of the ceremony and music are pushed out of my head as I remember the sweets. I think of the _dango_ , sweet rice dumplings, that are likely to be there, and the different kinds of teas. My stomach growls at the thought.

Road laughs. “You’re still hungry?” she grins. “Allen likes to eat a lot,” she sings, her voice a little off-pitch and vowels swallowed and then lengthened in play. 

With a wave at her, I try and think of what to say to that. She grabs both my arms, pulling me around in a clumsy circle. I think she’s attempting to dance.

“Ya,” a dry voice calls out. “Hello there boy.” Humor lurks in those words, and a kind of promise I don’t know what to make of. Tyki’s brown eyes are dark and deep, like he knows a secret that might kill someone. Or maybe he’s just melodramatic.

Fumbling with the dance, I nod in greeting, still not sure if I should be bowing or waving at the man who _claims_ to be my uncle, even though I’ve never heard about Tyki being related to anybody at all.

He and Road are among the older Noah; strong magical talent lending years and youth to their lives. Their talent and age set them apart from the others. I heard once that the two of them played a part in taking down the old Millennium Earl…allowing his successor to take on the mask. And yet they do penance with a regularity that suggests dark deeds more than heroic ones.

“How are you, Uncle Tyki?” I greet, offering a lopsided smile that’s wider for all the spinning. I laugh out loud, and Road finally spins away.

“Just Tyki, Allen…” he smirks broadly, and his teeth catch the light. “Will you be taking part in the service then?” At my nod, his grin softens into a smile. “I’m still on penance…” he remarks lazily. “I’ll be there all night. Glad someone with some amount of musical talent will be playing…” and he pushes his glasses up his nose.

Not knowing what to say to that, I incline my head and say, “I’ll be there a few hours, yes. I doubt I’ll stay past midnight, though.” 

“Splendid. Come on then, Road.” He smiles gallantly, and manages to sneak attack her, taking her by the arm as one might take a dance partner. But his grip is firm, and his smile isn’t in jest, but placating. “…You’re doing penance too…” He looks back at me, and his glasses have slipped so that I can see his eyes…it’s a little disconcerting, the way he looks at me.

When our eyes meet, he murmurs, “Good evening then, young man.” His arm on Road’s, he and she bow a little. Manners from a century past. “Until the service,” he throws over his shoulder, and the two of them walk back under the trees, like death and sorrow, always hand in hand.

* * *

(The Club, Kanda)

I can feel the music pulsing up through my feet and in my bones. The beat is heavy, the melody mundane and predictable, but it’s easy to see why it’s playing. That kind of music is easy to dance to.

Lenalee feels her way through the crowd lightly, as though she’s winged, walking on air. How she can let herself go, how she can sink into the scene, I don’t know. But the room seems to follow her, and more than one person sidles on up to dance with her.

Her smile is small, her eyes void of malice, but she doesn’t look pleased by them—so I do my job. Walk up to the idiots who get too close or have no business talking to an ace of the Order. A girl who could break your neck as soon as give you the time of day…

…or that’s how she’s supposed to be. All razor-tooth smiles and monstrous appetites. But she’s not…not mostly anyways.

“Lenalee,” I recognize the voice, and sure enough, a tall, gawky man wanders up behind me, moving my hand from a lesser offender’s wrist. His hair is as long as some girls keep theirs, but it’s kept neat under a cap of sorts. “Are you going to dance with me?” he asks hopefully, his tone one I associate with whiny toddlers or real perverts.

“Kanda, did you just snort?” Lenalee reprimands. Her hands fly to her hips.

“No.” It comes out a little more curtly than intended, which only makes Komui frown and Lenalee hide a grin.

I turn to Komui. “You might be attracting too much attention.” He’s smiling now, and a spark of intelligence returns to his eyes. I retreat few steps, and go back to watching the scene.

Komui is completely graceless as he tries to keep up with his little sister, but she’s not stupid. Getting Komui off her back is second nature, and the introvert-of-a-man doesn’t really want to be there. I don’t have to hear the words to know what she says.

Lenalee goes with him to the bar, gets something she probably oughtn’t drink, and lets her brother pamper her as they find a seat. I trail the two of them.

Wordlessly, I take the first cup and take a sip. It passes immediate inspection, but when I turn to Komui, he scowls and covers his beverage with a hand. I look at him.

“Drinking after a person is like a second-hand kiss.” He remarks, and swishes the stuff around.

I shrug. I’ve been trained not to think about it that way—in any way at all. It’s simply a function I’ve been conditioned to perform. “Suit yourself.” I step back again, leaning against the table and watching pairs move their arms around one another, moving clumsily to a fast beat. I can’t keep my lips from turning down.

Behind me, Komui makes a strangled noise. “…But maybe I should test yours, Lenalee, and…and I’ll have that one…” he’s making a strange face, I can tell by the sound of his voice. I risk a glance at the two of them, and am rewarded with Lenalee picking up her brother’s cup and taking a sip.

“It’s fine,” she says firmly. “Drink your own drink, brother.” She passes it back and nurses her own drink.

Across from her, Komui stutters, fidgets, and generally gasps, acting like a baby with a crush again. “You didn’t have to do that—”

I turn away again, looking out at the swarms of dancers. To me, their chatter is meaningless; even if she is an important weapon on the front, he’s not about to talk business with her. Not before she’s cut the order into her skin, bled for the bosses, and shackled herself permanently to the ideal. She’s only sixteen. He won’t take her into real confidence for years yet.

Some minutes later, I hear a buzz to my left. Komui flips open his cell phone, checks the ID and simply says, “Yes. I’ll be right there.” Then he’s standing, nodding at the two of us, and out of sight in seconds. I guess he can work tonight after all.

Lenalee sips again once, watching where her brother used to be. She doesn’t speak. Just leaves the table, and throws herself into a dramatic posse—practically soaring as she flees the moment.

I follow again, letting not the smallest hint of admiration show.

Time passes. It’s much later, and a woman has approached Lenalee. The stranger is looking at me with suspicion, eying my hair, my face, and finally my hands. “What is it?” he asks. A hand goes to her cheek, as though comparing my genetically altered, flawless skin with her own. “Some kind of doll?”

Lenalee shrugs. “That’s Kanda.” She’s looking beyond the momentary pause, and I follow her gaze. A figure trailing a black shawl and a smooth, slinky dress. Too high class for a place like this, and heading for the upstairs balcony. “He’s been with the Order for years now,” she says absently, and looks back at the disappearing form of the woman. “You were looking for me?”

The two of them move as one, and without a look to anyone on the dance-floor, they’re up the stairs. I follow a few paces behind, but I’m _more_ than uninterested. No one in their right mind would attack Lenalee. But I follow, stopping before the door, ready to keep anyone else from coming up behind the party.

Lenalee frowns at me, and her eyes flicker to the other women. “Watch the door from outside. If my brother asks, tell him I’m in the bathroom.”

I nod curtly and close the door behind me, hesitating at the top of the stairs.

The door isn’t the most soundproof place to have their kind of conversation, especially with my hearing. In spite of their hushed voices, a few words are audible. “…the situation,” followed by a muffled “…any leaks?”

But once I’m a few stairs back into the din of music and party people, I can’t hear anything else.

 _What’s going on here tonight,_ I wonder, resisting the urge to look back up at Lenalee’s party. They went up there just after Komui left…

I lean against the side of the stairs, watching the crowd, examining their pockets and counting clip-on knives and looking for signs of someone hiding a gun.

I spot a few more security and some undercover professionals…members of the Black Order, or someone’s hirelings, I can’t tell. But they watch the crowd the same way I do, and feel my gaze on them almost as soon as I look their way. One unconsciously touches his side for the briefest of seconds, and I think he must have a weapon hidden there.

I resign to suffer through a long night in the bar. I cross my arms, and frown. Whatever is going on, Black Order business or not, I’ll need to keep an eye out for trouble.

Angry words break out near the bar, a woman, by the sounds of it. There’s some scuffling as she pushes her way through the crowd. A man calls after her, but he stops dead when she throws her drink at him. He sputters, calling her all sorts of names.

“You think you can buy my cooperation with a few drinks? You probably think any woman in the District is a whore, you lousy prick.” Her tone is scornful, her face contorted with contempt. “Go back home to your salary job and your wife.”

I sigh. I may have my work cut out for me yet.

* * *

Thoughts?


	3. Rumors & Interrogation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Allen hears rumors in the Quartered District.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just to make a few things clear, it is based off the Edo period—not set in the Edo period. We still have modern conveniences, and a lot of history that Road and Tyki may hint at later. ^_^! 
> 
> Also! This chapter is being split into multiple parts too to keep updates fast— I am editing the parts coming after atm.
> 
> Now…onto your regularly scheduled writing…

Walking to work is usually an eventless matter. People are clumsily making their way home, or rushing about on their business. But today, nervous chatter fills the street. Instead of hungover complaints, people cluster in small groups, whispering. I feel a few pairs of eyes watch me pass, probably to discourage me from listening in on their gossip. 

The sun shines down hard on the general store across the street from my cafe, making the tinny roof glisten. 

The door to my work is probably unlocked already since the owner usually arrives early, but I pause to greet our neighbors. 

“Good morning,” I call, but no one so much as glances at me. Their demeanor demands my attention, so I stall a little to listen.

Two men are deep in speculative conversation, the first a heavy-set man with a thinning hairline, and the other a tall, lean man with a weather-beaten face. The heavy-set man idly presses buttons on his phone, texting or web-browsing. 

“Every time somebody drops dead, the cops come and scour the slums. Asking everybody in sight for an alibi.” The first complains, shaking his head in tired complaint. 

His mouth works into a line. 

“So…where were you?” the thin man snorts, waggling his eyebrows. But he nods in agreement.

The man chuckles, giving a sly twist of a grin. “I was drinking…with you…right?”

“Oh,” the sound is short and surprised, but the man smiles slowly. “Yeah, yeah. I was with you,” he jabs a meaty finger into the other man’s stomach,　humor creeping into his voice. 

I can’t help it. I take a few steps closer and lean in on their conversation. When they look at me, I frown, closing the distance even as I begin to speak. “You shouldn’t make light of something like that.” I shake my head. “Death isn’t a joke—”

“Would you look at that,” amused laughter meets my ears, and one of the men goes as far to ruffle my hair. “It’s that church kid.” He eyes me up and down, then nods a greeting that’s minutes too late. “Hey, church kid.”

Shaking my head briskly and trying to get rid of the feeling of his hand on my head, I feel myself bristle. “My name is Allen.” The words are as firm as I can make them.

His face looks craggy— probably from bad habits and a late night, but he smiles. “I thought you Noah talked about death as salvation…” he ignores my name and continues on the train of thought. “Like, you were into death ritual and sacrifice.” His light tone and smile distract me from the words. I wonder what he could be thinking about to say that.

He doesn’t know anything about my beliefs. I frown, anger warming my stomach and flushing my cheeks. I don’t move, not a muscle.

I breathe deep. Remember my manners, and somehow, I manage a tense smile and let up. I brush past the two men. But leaving his accusation as it is seems foolish, so I speak over my shoulder as I go. “No Noah I know would kill anyone,” not without good reason, anyway. As a final concession to the conversation I add, “Excuse me.”

The man reaches out to stop me, his meaty arm covering the span easily. “That’s not what I heard.” It sounds like he’s looking for a fight. Not something I need or want in front of the shop. “I heard that—” he tries and edge closer.

“ _Excuse me_ ,” I say again, twisting out of his grip and ducking down. It’s a simple maneuver that’s saved my neck in a tight situation or two.

When I look over my shoulder to judge their reaction, I don’t know what to make of it. Their faces are both wary and amused, so I don’t think I’m off the hook yet. One man tenses as I back away, his eyes calculating. 

The feeling of many gazes presses down on me. All across the street, people’s hushed conversations have lulled, and many are watching _me_. I pull my shoulders back and walk tall, heading for the door. The weight of those eyes only slacks when the door is closed and I’m behind the counter of the café.

As I look around the counter, distracting my eyes and my emotions, I consider what this is about. The gossip isn’t a surprise, really. Murder is certainly not unheard of around here, but something about the whole thing feels like it’s more than that. Not a robbery turned murder, or even like a person killing their husband or wife. 

I pull the store notebook into my hands, continuing my contemplation as I open to book. Scratch the date in. So many people are worried…I idly count and add numbers from the column.

As I move into the tiny kitchen area, pulling down now-dry dish rags and reorganizing the supplies, it comes to me. It _isn’t_ normal. This feels like syndicate activity…something organized.

I shift on my feet, gently touching my scarred left hand. I sigh. Noah may not often be recruited into the families, but I know a thing or two about the syndicate. The Black Order.

Tyki has warned me about not cheating at cards if I’m playing against one of those members, though Cross is reckless—or cocky—enough to say that it doesn’t matter. I learned the Con (the big Game) under Cross, but no one had to teach me to be cautious. Being a crippled kid working in the circus teaches caution better than anyone.

I chew my lip. Whether Noah are involved or not, we’ll feel the effects. I sigh, and get out the polishing cloth for the counters. Might as well clean the place up.

* * *

The wind whispers through the streets, hidden by the buzz of chatter. Men and women bustle about the streets, quick to be on their way. My flyers are turned down to a one.

“Lunch special in the café,” I call out. “Try our delicious sandwiches.” The loose pages rustle in the breeze. My voice sounds clearly among all the noise, almost as though people hush when they pass me.

A woman with a hand-knit shawl around her head walks with her head down. She nearly runs into me, even as I hold out a flyer for her. The woman gives a startled gasp and takes a step backwards. I watch, surprised, when she scuttles all the way to the other side of the street, her eyes wide and worried. She watches me for a few seconds more, and then drops her gaze again.

“Try our lunch special! Please come on in,”

I turn my head to see two men walking towards me. I offer a pamphlet and a smile, though I know their long coats are of too high quality to come to this part of the District. The older man walks in front, a mild expression that he tries to work into a smile. “You’re Allen Walker?” He says, his voice low. “Do you have a minute? We’d like to talk.”

On closer examination, I wonder if these two men are from the Black Order or from out of the district. I take in a sharp breath, my eyes darting around to see if anyone is watching. But of course they are. They’ve been watching me ever since I got here. I nod slowly.

“What can I do for you?” I smile. “I’m afraid I’m working right now, but—”

“Mr. Walker,” the younger man interrupts. “I think it would be better if we had this conversation out of the street. I believe your place of employment is close?”

I nod slowly. “Please have a cup of tea.” I give a little cough. “I mean, please buy a cup of tea.”

The older man sighs and heads for the café door. The younger man is a mere pace behind me.

The door closes solidly behind me. I chew my lip, suddenly feeling unsteady on my feet. I have the urge to start humming something, or to outright sing, but I stifle it. I don’t want to perform for these two.

“What will you have, then, gentlemen?”

“Black coffee.” The Asian man says, sucking air in through his teeth.

The second one is barely taller than me, and his hair is pulled into a tight braid. His expression is at odds with his face; grim determination doesn’t suit him at all. “Milk tea, please.” He shifts awkwardly on his feet.

“Please make yourself comfortable,” I suggest, waving a hand in the direction of the booths.

“Best make yourself something too, Mr. Walker. I’m detective Park Seong-ho, and this is my assistant Howard Link, a junior detective. We have a few things to ask you.” 

Just what I need. 

I am _so_ screwed.

I swallow hard. So not Black Order people, but human police. It feels like a cold quiet has settled over the place, sharper and more intense than the staring strangers outside. 

I nod, and take slow, even steps to the bar. I select the tupperware marked Extra Bold Coffee and careful measure a scoop into the grinder. It whirs for a few seconds, and then I sift the crushed beans into the filter and pour hot water from the kettle, watching the dark liquid stream through the fine grits of coffee beans.

I want the process to take longer. The presence of the detectives is somehow bigger than the two men should have…something in the atmosphere—like a loud, shrieking noise behind the regular sounds of the shop.

I steam the milk along with a ball of loose-leaf tea until it turns a warm tan color. I stall for time, pouring both drinks into cups, and carefully arranging the napkin and spoons. For myself, I bring only a thermos bottle of hot oolong tea.

The detectives are seated quietly at the table, Link with a notebook and pen pulled out, while Park idly fingers his phone. It’s an older model, with scuffed corners and a thin scratch down one side. Park slides it into his pocket as I set down the tray.

Park nods his thanks, and takes a small sip of the hot liquid. Link simply moves his closer to him, but doesn’t move to take a sip. I unscrew the top of my thermos, and pour myself a bit of tea, hoping that they will be finished with me before I can finish the cup.

Park clears his throat, and leans back into his chair. “So, you been working at this café long?”

“For a while, yes.” At Links severe look, I add, “A year or so.”

“Do you get much business?”

“I can’t say that we do a lot, but we get by.” I smile, but don’t offer much more than that.

“I see.” Park taps a finger on the table. “So, you ever consider getting a second job? Or does your gig at the church pay well?”

Ah. They’ve already looked in on my background. Fear and cold speculation compete in my mind, the first urging me to answer anything so long as it keeps me out of trouble, and the later counseling calculated vagaries. They’ll tell me what they’re after in their own time.

If I know what they’re looking for or not, I’ll figure it out before they even ask me outright. I doubt they’re much for playing a subtle hand.

“The church? I play the piano for some services, but otherwise I’m just a volunteer. But no, I don’t really need a second job. Family takes good care of me.” Watches me, one might say.

“So without another job, where would that put you yesterday night?” Park ducks his chin so that he has to look up at me. A perfect interrogation face with all of his wrinkles and down-turned lips.

“Well, let’s see.” I answer brightly, taking a short breath and casting my own eyes to the ceiling. I’ve practiced that look…the one that emphasizes my youth, and makes it look like I’m incapable of thinking of anything bigger than weekend plans or café menus. “I got off work at six, and I went straight to the church. I played the piano at the Moon Viewing Ceremony, but I left at midnight.” Simple.

“Where did you go after the ceremony then?” Park lifts both eyebrows, tilting his head to show attention.

His grave expression lends a seriousness to the situation. Seriousness that I ruin by blowing on my tea and tossing my head back. “Well,” I draw out the word, imitating Road’s childish tones. “I went home. I went to sleep.” I smile widely, and look at Link. “Is the tea not to your liking, Mr. Link?”

Link stops in his note-taking and shakes his head. “It’s fine, Mr. walker.”

“But you haven’t tried it,” I point out, forcing my brows to knit, and my mouth to pout. Actually, I feel cornered.

“I’m letting it cool.” Link answers, his tone bland.

“So you don’t have an alibi for after midnight, then.”

Allen… the lights seem to flicker, and the sense of cold vanishes. Instead, a warm breeze ruffles my hair, and envelops me like an embrace. That voice…

“Alibi? So you investigating me? What for?” I decide to play dumb. Let them tell me the details of the murder case everyone has been going on about.

“Surely you’ve heard the news…word has been on the street since before we even sent the first responding officer, so I’m told.” He leans forward, shoulders hunched and cramped looking. 

“People don’t talk to me so much.” I admit slowly.

Ah, well they wouldn’t. A low, humorless chuckle sounds behind my ears. I look around, expecting to find a figure leaning over the bar, or perhaps hiding in the shadows.

“Have you seen this man before?” Park nods to Link, who pulls a black file out of his briefcase. He selects a photo, careful not to show anything else in the file.

I look at the man in the photograph. He looks to be in his thirties or so, lean and probably fit. His hair is dark, and his features unremarkable. I don’t recognize him. I almost feel relieved.

“I’ve never seen him before.”

“Go ahead and take another look. Look closely,” Park suggests, waving his hand in friendly invitation. But his eyes are harsh.

I glance down again, looking at the man’s eyes. I shake my head. “I really don’t know him.”

“You’ve been placed on the scene, Allen Walker.” Park barks, his voice brash.

“It has to be a mistake—I don’t even know where that man lives!”

“Out of the district.” Park slaps the tabletop. Link takes a sip of his tea. “A civilian, murdered on the outskirts of the Quartered Districts. No fucking way it’s a mistake, chump.” He grimaces, and stands up. “In that area, some Noah would stand out like a sore thumb.”

I sip my oolong tea. I suppose it makes sense— it explains the intensity, if not the investigation. But I wasn’t there.

“Look at yourself, that white hair, that scar.” He brings his meaty hand down on my head. “A Noah? One like that? There’s only you!” His words make my head ring after the cuffing.

The store bell chimes, discordant in the situation. Tyki stands in the door, silhouetted by the afternoon light. His footsteps sound heavy and firm in the sudden silence, stopping some distance from where I sit.

He looks at me oddly, like he’s seeing something…something dangerous.

_Tyki Mikk._

“What are you two inspectors doing here, questioning a minor without so much as a witness?” Tyki’s voice isn’t so much hard as it’s disapproving. He’s using his high-collar voice, and his height and standing position gives him further leverage still. He uses it to tower over them.

A warm breeze sweeps itself around me, and I give a tiny sigh, my eyes fluttering. Behind closed lids, I can almost see a figure. The smile appears first-- like a Cheshire cat-- flickering into existence. Next I see long and graceful hands, and a wisp of dark hair surrounding a familiar face, but the eyes... The eyes are closed or hidden from me. 

_“Allen, Allen, Allen. You walked right into that...you shouldn’t have come to work today. As easy to find as a sheep to pen...”_ His smile is listless.

I rub my temple. 

“We’re simply inquiring about his alibi. Nothing at this stage is something you’d _need_ a lawyer for.” The older detective replies scornfully. He obviously doesn’t think much of Tyki. 

“Bullshit. You’re trying to bully him into admitting something stupid so you can get some sort of racist warrant.” 

The noise filters through my mind, distracting me. I can see the man, Tyki and Park, and the junior detective all at once, but following what they’re saying is more difficult. If they’d just stay still, it’d be a lot easier.

The man walks out of the shadow and into my line of sight. He is tall, graceful, and completely unknown to me.

“Who are you?” I feel strangely disconnected as I ask this. _Crazy people talk to themselves._ but I push that thought away; I’m not talking to me... There’s someone else here.

In answer, the figure pulls a golden sphere out of the air. It opens with teeth bared, it opens, and a light the color of distilled honey seeps out. A score of music, a glimpse of the golden sphere in the middle. The notes look like rough bits of iron hammered into a ring, like uneven spokes in a clock. 

I take in my surprise with a sharp breathe. I haven’t seen Tim since…since years before. Before Cross ‘lost’ him. 

Time returns to me.

“Did you say something?” Link asks.

I shake my head numbly in the detective’s direction, and examine his braid to keep myself occupied.

“I don’t have anything to hide,” I say slowly, my eyes flitting back to the figure. The music notes have folded back into the sphere, and I remember its teeth are hidden behind that smooth surface, and the music itself becomes wings. It’s good to see him again.

 _“Don’t all Noah have something to hide?”_ the voice is musical, I realize, and the eyes have a tinge of sharpness to them. 

Link motions in my direction. “So you have an alibi up until midnight.” he says reasonably. “If the autopsy shows the time of death before midnight, you’re not a suspect.” I don’t know what to make of this guy. 

I shrug. “I thought they didn’t accept family alibis...” I mumble into my cup. I ignore the words of the musician. 

Link fixes me with a disapproving frown. He looks over his notebook with an expression of severity. With a stiff back and tense shoulders, he looks like he’s meant for the army, not the police. “I don’t think you were there.” He says into his cup. Then he shakes his head, almost as though he’s talking to himself. 

Or maybe he just wants someone to listen to his own logic. Being a junior investigator, I doubt he often gets the opportunity. “I don’t think you did it.”

 _A baby detective,_ I mentally dub him. _Private eye...baby eye?_ but that doesn’t have the right ring to it.

“Why do you think that?” 

Link’s eyes bore into me, his high brows making it look like he smells something unpleasant. “The witness wasn’t reliable...” he shakes his head, and his braid wags behind him. “I doubt there were any Noah on the scene at all.”

I nod slowly, noncommittal. I wonder if it’s a ploy to get me to trust him—to open up and reveal some information, or if he’s just playing a familiar role. Good cop, bad cop. My eyes flick to Detective Park, considering. But then again, Howard Link is young and fresh enough to possibly work on his own a bit. To take a leap of faith.

Link stands up and moves to the left, moving subtly to stand to the left of the other detective. Link’s a full beat ahead of Park, who hasn’t seemed to realize his time here is about to end. 

“If you want to talk to young Allen here, it will need to be official, recorded, and with a lawyer.” Tyki is saying, pushing the bigger detective towards the door. Tyki only needs to push with the ends of his fingertips, he’s that much stronger than him. He smiles coolly, ever polite, even when he’s pushing you out on your ass.

The younger detective gives me a nod, and is out by his own accord.

Tyki’s eyes bore into me. “So,” he leans against the wall next to the door. “Did you have a good conversation with the inquisitors?” His has a crooked smile even when he’s serious, Tyki. He reminds me of an easy-going repairman with an assistant professor’s attitude-- at times in control over the students, at times watching the chaos, and then bowing to the other professors when he feels like it.

“Not really,” I sigh, and rub my temple again. I glance over to my thermos bottle, wondering if the oolong tea will help my headache. I stretch, gently pulling the tight muscles in my shoulder and hands. 

“Find out who you were talking to, then?”

My eyes snap up. Tyki smiles again, his voice low like song. “Who were you talking to, Allen Walker?”

He always did seem to know more than he let on. 

I lick my lips, briefly considering denying anything.

_Of all people, Tyki Mikk would know. He knows you’re lying even when you don’t._

“No one, Tyki.” I shake my head, a soft smile taking over my features.

“Who are you?” Tyki repeats my question from earlier, tasting each syllable as though it were a foreign language. He cocks his head, his smile nothing more than a memory.

“The Musician.” I whisper. Somehow, saying it aloud brings it all together, suddenly makes more sense. Of course. Who else could I be speaking to? I steal a glance to where I saw the music, but only see a wide smile lacking a face. But I thought I recognized it early…so familiar, and yet I can’t quite…

Tyki’s laugh is sharp and hallow. “Allen,” he shakes his head, and moves closer with the easy grace of a predator. “ _You_ are the Musician.”

“Yes, I know.” My own voice is quiet. “I know.”

Tyki purses his lips. “As long as that’s clear.” He coughs. His eyes slide over to where the detectives just were. “Allen—” his voice does not waver, “you weren’t there.” His voice is strong and steady, sure and convincing.

I don’t believe him. 

Or do I? 

“No Noah was there, then,” I mutter.

Tyki shrugs, his smile coming back. “Indeed, it must be so.” His large, long fingered hand brushes at his wavy hair. “All were asleep or at worship.” His voice is rich with irony.

I bite my lip again, wondering. Where does my musician fit in, and why would someone say a Noah was there?

Of course, it could be plain stupidity. The witness might just hate Noah.

_How can you know?_

I smile at Tyki and nod, hoping to seem the happy, obedient child. “Of course.”

I’ll have to go and look for myself…see if there’s anything to be learned from a dead man’s place.

“Make me some chamomile tea, then?” Tyki smiles, all white teeth. “I could use a little sanctuary like this right now.”

I nod, my thoughts swept away into tidy corners. With enough patience, I can learn something about the murder. Remind myself that I wasn’t there.

Probably.

I settle back into the morning routine, and all the while, I can feel Tyki’s eyes on me. I think about what he’s saying. We can wait for the conflict to find us…or we can go out and find _it_ first. 

At last, I give in and hum. Tyki smiles from his table, and his rich baritone urges the melody into a full song. It’s nice, really. I can almost forget the smile that faded away, the man that no one else can see.

I can only wait so long. Then, I think, it’s time to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


	4. Visiting the Deceased

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Allen goes to visit the home of the murdered man.

**Chapter 4 Visiting the deceased**

The trick to looking like you belong in a place is to act like you do. So, while walking ever closer to the border of the quartered district, I smile pleasantly and take care not to glance around noticeably. I’ve hidden the distinctive scar on my eye and cheek behind makeup, and tucked my white hair under a floppy hat. I take a deep breath.

The air is still, the clouds pulling at the sky’s edges, masking clear blues in an unobtrusive gray. I can smell flowers, the earthy tint of just moldering leaves, and a hint of chill that early autumn brings. It all seems so fragile…like the wings of a moth.

And so I head out. Technically, I'm supposed to go through the official gate—and pay an unofficial bribe, but a fire escape makes a good path to the roof. I leap onto the ill-repaired wall and scuttle to the street.

I walk farther, my mind in a haze. My feet stop a few times, but I reorient myself with effort.

I look at the gate surrounding the man’s house. Consider the high walls and the shuttered windows. The smell of blood that hasn’t been scrubbed away. A closer look at the garden reveals the dust paths and broken twigs scattered about by a full-inspection; who else would muck about with so little regard? 

There must have been dozens of people through the little garden, but their lively impression does little to cover the feel of desperation and unease. I’m not even close to the actual spot, but the air of tragedy is heavy. Like a mist of anguish seeping into my skin.

The air is decidedly different from the neighborhood outside . I walk slowly to the side. The feeling gets stronger, and I stop for a moment before frowning.

The feeling is like a hand on my shoulder, I turn to see a familiar figure. Dark eyes, high cheekbones, and a narrow, clever face. The Musician smiles at me. It’s an odd expression, and rather than seeming friendly, it makes him look part wild. “Allen,” he says quietly, and my name on his lips sounds like contemplation. “What are you doing?” As would be, his question is partially just that, but…that tone.

I close my eyes against an unconscious wince, bowing self-consciously as I wonder what I could say. “I heard he was—” I muffle my reaction with a smile, hiding my unease as best I can. “I’ve been…that is, the investigation detectives placed a Noah on the scene.” Some of yesterday’s raw emotions come back to me, and I try for a smooth, clear expression. I wonder if it fits.

The musician returns my smile indulgently, and his eyes, normally reflecting whatever light’s around, seem pitch black. “You’ve been accused,” he notes quietly. “I had wondered about that.” Like Tyki, his mouth pulled into a smile is both handsome and cruel. But I’m not overly concerned. He hasn’t done anything yet.

I shift my weight and offer a tentative nod. “You see, the witness said a few things to make the detectives think…or assume,” I trod carefully, “that I might have done it.” I peaceably look at him, opening my eyes wide and asking silently, _did I?_

Ignoring the look and shaking his hair out of his face, he nods to the gate. “Come with me.” Close enough to touch, we walk through, and it feels like the air has fallen on me. I shiver unconsciously.

Common sense would tell me to stay in the garden. But the musician has called, and I want to see for myself what he’s looking at. I follow as I catch sight of the golden sphere; it’s a whisper of wings. _Golem,_ I think. The little thing is strangely familiar.

It’s as expected. The place is quiet, still. The light plays golden to blue, dancing on the edges and shivering. I step over the clumps of dirt and onto the cut stones.

I take a sharp breath. I want to close my eyes, turn away from the way memory that buries everything here.

“Ah,” the musician says. He’s passed the threshold and is touching the wall. He motions for me, and I follow more slowly to the side, looking for a door or window from the garden. “He’s here…” the wandering singer announces, dark humor flavoring his tone. “His tragedy lingers.” A breath too soft to hear, followed by a stream of air blowing in my direction. “Allen,” he sings, and his voice is the lullaby of my childhood, before Mana, certainly before Cross.

“Yes?” I call, tapping on the side of a stone and looking at the door.

The whole of the situation begins to unfold, and I can sense a whisp of the dead man. Like the musician said, the air is perfumed with frustrated ambition, loss of choice, and a soul entombed in sadness and fury. It’s remarkable. Overwhelming. With the singer, I feel _stronger_ than I ever have before… Like his simply being here is an amplifier for things I’ve half dreamed my whole life.

I take one step closer, ducking into the building. My curiosity about the singer, the death of a man I’ve never met, and the feeling here has pulled me in.

Soft light. Quiet, still air. Only the ticking of a clock keeps me from thinking the whole of it a painting, a still life we’ve intruded on. I can hardly breathe for fear of upsetting the pattern. As I step through, I sigh into the curtain he pulls aside, and a sight like the coldest of nights greets me.

It’s lackluster and frightful inside. The wonder of life has fled. Off in the corner, a shadow of a figure slumps.

I give a cry, wanting to rush forward and check for signs of life, but the musician gives me such a look that I stop.

“Look closer…” he says. The golem stretches from his finger to take flight again. It flutters closer to the corner, and that quiet, reflecting light clears the shadows.

The slumped man’s eyes are open, and tears stream down his face, but there’s a transparency about him, a lack of weight that startles me. I close my eyes, then turn away. When I look again, it’s out the corner of my eye, and I see it for what it is. An empty corner, darkened with blood or bodily fluids, chalked out in white. There is nobody there.

“Definitely murder,” the musician muses. “Look at that.” He smiles. “Timcanpy has the right of it…” The little golem has moved away, settling on the side of a chair. I can’t see what Timcanpy has seen at all, but the singer is talking again. “Murder…” he isn’t smiling. “It doesn’t cause the soul to wither and decay, Allen Walker, but the suffering…and regret…it could cause a soul to linger.” He looks carefree even as he speaks of that terrible fate, and I shrink from it.

But his hand reaches towards me, and he gestures at the spirit. ‘What do the Noah say happens to a soul after death?”

I stand straighter, remembering the stories Mana told me. “The soul passes to the Keeper,” I murmur, “and he speaks with them…they choose with him how long they ought to rest before rebirth. When—”

He interrupts with a cough. “ _Before_ they meet with the Dark One, Allen.” He yawns. Looks at me closely, an eyebrow raised. “What happens?”

I swallow, chagrined. Maybe I haven’t learned my lessons so well as I thought. “The spirit is left here...to say goodbye, to leave behind the impurities of life.” I touch my right eye, wondering. Trying to remember the story of a clown—

“Yes. Too true. And they must find their way to the god of death or else be led to him.” He grins wickedly at me. “You would probably get lost, wouldn’t you?” He touches the corner of his mouth. “Best send someone to fetch you, hmm?” 

I turn back to the pool of black and wispy white that marks the spirit. “Oh, yes.” I murmur. “He’s to purify himself...by waiting. They say time will--”

\--there’s a sharp noise as Timcanpy runs into a low set table. He flutters and lands precariously. The only sound he makes is the whisper of tail and wings. I take a step toward the golem.

“Why do you suppose it’s come to this?” The singer muses, and I can hear a melody on his tongue, though it isn’t a pretty one. “You know it’s murder. “The question is…is it the act of a crazed psychopath working on his own? Or something bigger?”

I look at Timcanpy. “I have no idea,” I reply, and my eyes search the room for clues. 

He presses on. “But what do the _Noah_ have to do with it?” He leans in close, and I can feel him at my back. It’s the closest I’ve felt him, and there’s a chilly familiarity that surprises me. He waits for a reply.

I look into the soul and sense the sadness there. The hollow eyes are focused on me, but it’s strange. He doesn’t seem to notice the singer at all. I want to touch its cheek, to ease away the grief, but such a thing is impossible.

“Well?” he urges. I’d like to say he sounds impatient, harried, or even spiteful. That a Noah Musician would _hate_ the supposition of an obvious, hate-inspired rumor.

Confused by his lack of outrage, I waver. Frustration and anger boil out of me. “No, it’s nothing like that!” I feel my jaw clench, and my lips could tear if I pulled them apart any faster. “That’s only a hateful _lie._ Nothing more than a rumor. I—” I stop, stuttering. My voice falls to pieces like shattered glass.

The musician smiles at me, his cool eyes reflecting a night-sky I cannot see. A soft, genuine smile seems to blossom under my gaze, and he lifts a hand, the index finger extended. He twirls a circle lazily. “Think about it, Allen. Now. _Go._ Take Tim with you.”

The golem has already landed on my hair. I give a start of surprise, and turn back to the spirit. I can’t hear anything from it; if it speaks it all. I can’t ask any questions.

When I look back to the musician, he too is surveying the soul. I wonder if there’s anything I can say to get another opinion, but it seems risky. He’s either forgotten I’m here, or really meant for me to go.

* * *

I open the door, push the key back into my pocket, and mentally prepare myself for readying the shop for tomorrow’s business. The list of things to do should comfort me. Should bring the wary tension off my shoulders. But it’s more like a sharpener.

It’s quiet. My heart thumps a quiet pattern in my chest, and warm air breezes through my hair. A warning.

“You shouldn’t have gone there,” a voice calls. It’s the blond haired detective, the baby with a theory all his own.

I’m almost happy to see him, but the words give me pause. I look at him a while longer. “What?” My fingers fall from the door, and I hover there.

He motions me in. “Inside.” His voice conveys suggestion, but his stiff manner says more than that.

I’m rooted to the spot, uncertain. I hear music in the back of my mind like a warning.

“Go in. Unless you’d like your business on the wings of rumor?” he’s biting his lip, like he knows he’s already said too much.

I let him in.

“You shouldn’t have gone back, Allen Walker.” He frowns, his expression pinched.

“ _You,_ ” he nods his chin at me to emphasize it, “are one supremely distinctive young man.”

I swallow. My throat is suddenly tight, and my heart wants to dance all the sudden. The urge to run, to never look back, is strong on me. “I--”

“A _hat_ Mr. Walker?” his voice is prim. “To cover your hair.” He chides, and the decision seems like a really primitive one now. “Only that, when your manner, eyes, and dress all give you away. “ He pinches his nose. “Don't go back there, _Mister_ Walker.” His expression is all seriousness and exasperation.

“I didn’t!” I protest, and anger flares in my voice. I bite my tongue just as quickly, knowing argument rarely works with people like him. I school my expression into a polite mask, dropping my gaze. “I’m sorry Mr. Link. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Leaning against the door frame, Link looks older than he is. Like he’d surpass me by a decade in experience, when that’s not the case at all. “I’m serious, Allen.” I see he calls me by my name when he’s not so angry. Odd that my outburst affects him so little. “You’re quite memorable.”

I look away.

“If you go the scene, someone will see you. Returning to the scene of the crime...it doesn’t look good.”

My heart catches in my throat again. I heard somewhere, something very like that. Murderers often return to the place-- whether it’s to relive the glory, or to be reminded of the heinous things they’d done.

“Human...” he coughs. “People’s memories,” he amends, “isn’t always reliable. Witnesses identify the wrong man, respond to outward influence and investigator’s inclinations. If asked again,” he pins me to the spot with a stern gaze. “Someone else might conveniently _remember_ you after all.”

I can feel the blood drain from my face. He’s right, of course. I want to fill the awkward silence, to right things. “...can I offer you some tea?” I offer. My voice sounds plaintive even to my ears.

“No,” Link shakes his head. “Now keep your nose out of trouble.” Sharp eyes fix me with a stern look. And with that, he lets himself out.

I stare into the twilight of the room, unsure of myself, my own motives, or anything at all.

The clock ticks. My eyes close. But I won’t let myself be sucked in. What does he know? It must be some sort of elaborate move.

I remember something that Cross once said. ‘The easiest man to con is someone who wants something. If you can deliver, he’s all yours. The greedy ones, the impatient, the ones hungry for power. Those are the people we can work with.’

But Link skipped a step. You’re supposed to start small, to deliver after they’ve invested in you. Only then can you raise the stakes and take it all. But Junior Detective Howard Link doesn’t have my trust. He’s trying to play me.

I’m sure of it.

He thinks he’s so much older, so much more experienced than me. Stupid human brat. I may not yet be recognized as an adult among my people, but I have at least as much experience as he does.

I bet I can show him up. Find out who really killed the man...I must have been looking in the right area, just not asking the right questions. The dead man’s spirit can’t talk to me...but someone else can.

All I need to do is look.


	5. Meeting the Others

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Allen starts to ask uncomfortable questions and attracts the attention of Kanda.

**Meeting the others**

I watch the white-haired youth slowly circling the back-streets. He bobs his head politely, and seemingly at random, stops at a stall.

“Sorry to trouble you, ma’am, but I seem to have lost my way,” he murmurs, touching a gloved hand to the counter, his face a picture of confused innocence. “Ah, is that dried squid?” his face brightens. “And candied apples. You must see quite a few lost travels looking for a bite,” he laughs, and leans on the counter.

“May I have a candied apple?” his voice is bright and carefree, but the calculated interest in his eyes makes Kanda assume this is the boy he heard about. “Say,” he murmurs, leaning in farther still. “Have you happened to see a guy come by here recently? Mid thirties, dark hair…name of Jacob Atkins?”

I slide into place next to the traveler, causing the few other customers to step away. “You’re causing a scene,” I say evenly, eying the boy with suspicion.

The white-haired youth starts with a small yelp. “Ahh, you startled me!” He smiles, laughing nervously.

I take the stranger’s arm, and begin to pull him away from the crowd where I can question the interloper. I shove him roughly against the brick wall of some shop or other. “So you’re the stupid kid going around asking after a dead man.”

“What?” the boy frowns, his lips pursing in confusion. “I didn’t say—“

“Jacob Atkins.” I scoff, and tighten my grip on his shirt.

“News travels fast around here,” he laughs. “I’ve only been looking…” he fishes in his shirt pocket to pull out an old and cracked pocket watch. “…two and a half hours.” He looks mildly surprised. “That isn’t so long.”

“What’s an airhead kid like you going around asking about dead men for?” I consider the pale boy, wondering if my bosses really want a pale kid like this brought in for suspicious behavior. I pull away and turn my back, turning my head just enough so he can hear what I have to say. “Back off. Stay out of what you don’t understand, or you’ll get the wrong sort of people’s attention.” I take a few steps into the alley.

 _crunch._ the boy is munching on a candied apple, obviously unfazed.

My eye twitches. Stupid kid doesn’t even know how to handle a warning.

“So you know about Mr. Atkins then.” It’s not a question, and the vowels are a little sticky with candy. He follows after me, oblivious to the fact that I just had him pressed against a wall.

“I’m Allen.” He touches my shoulder and half spins me around. I’m too surprised to resist. “Allen Walker.”

Is this kid crazy, or just stupid?

 _Allen_ smiles and opens his mouth to speak again. “I know he was murdered. Actually, some detectives came by my place—place of work that is—and they said a Noah was seen. But I don’t know how that could be, since it was out of the district, and most everyone was asleep or at the Church.”

“I don’t care. I don’t know about your Atkins, and I don’t care if some detective thinks you murdered the Pope.” I shake away and take a step back. “What I do know is that you’re asking uncomfortable questions in the wrong territory.” 

Allen shakes his head and smiles ruefully. “So you know the streets?” he presses. “You’d know somebody who know anything, or heard something then, right? If I could just talk to some people who knew more about…well, anything…I think—”

Before I can even think of a response in words, I have my fingers on my knife hilts, a blade in each hand. I hold the point to Allen’s throat, and hold the other out, away from my body, ready to slice or jab if he so much as frowns at me.

“Just shut up, and stay out of things you don’t understand. You’re in the wrong territory to go around asking question without some sort of response.” I glare at him, willing him to stop chattering and just leave.

Allen stares at me, his expression surprised and vaguely alarmed, like he just realized he’s talking to a crazy person.

I glower.

High heels click behind me. “Kanda! I thought I saw you huff off into an alley. Really, I wondered—” Lenalee’s voice is high and fluting. “Oh, I didn’t realize you were talking to a friend!” She sounds like she could be making small talk in a sweet shop.

Only then does Komui step up behind her, his arms laden with paper bags from some store or other. “Good afternoon, Kanda,” He smiles, his tone all at once pleasant and questioning. “Is that the best way to have a nice cozy conversation with a friend?”

Lenalee has already walked up beside him, and she clucks her tongue, shaking her head. “So sorry. Clearly our Kanda hasn’t been raised right. He’s being rude.” A pale hand touches his wrist. Reluctantly, I put my knives away and meet Lenalee’s questioning gaze.

Without a glance at the interloper, I switch to Cantonese, guessing the bastard wouldn’t know up from down in it. “This kid has been asking a dead guy in your territory. People might start making connections simply because he’s _asking questions._ ”

Lenalee giggles. “You sound positively sulky. Did he ruffle your feathers that much?” She shakes her head. “Besides, no one told you to neutralize any threats. You’re attracting attention yourself, you know.”

Allen watches them exchange words, his bright eyes shining with curiosity. He steps away from my knifepoint, confident now that he won’t be stabbed. He smiles at Leenalee, and opens his mouth. “Do you know Jacob Atkins?”

* * *

Part 2: Entreating

(Allen)

Intuition and a quiet flip of Tim’s tail suggest I ought to be quiet. The girl’s tone is cheerful enough, but her manner is wary. I’m more than a little leery of that kind of double-talk...but I smile for what I’m worth and give a nod.

“Why don’t you come in? Have tea and chat for a few minutes.” The older guy seems a little reluctant to extend the invitation. But he’s looking at Tim and making a half-interested face, so.... maybe we could share thoughts.

“I’d be delighted.” I copy what I think of as Mana’s favored bow. When I meet his eyes again, he’s smiling slightly, as though he’d caught an answer he wanted to hear.

“Just this way.” He continues. He nods in the direction they’d been heading. “Kanda, if you could join us?” It’s not really a request the way I see it.

Kanda looks as though he might scowl, or maybe bite through his tongue. “I suppose.” He allows thickly.

We move down the street in silence until reaching a little shop fit snug between two taller buildings. The windows are dark, but a little white painted coffee cup gives just the right image. We unceremoniously enter, but instead of some staff ushering us to vacant seats, the person simply looks up, smiles thinly, and bows at the lot of us.

The place was a bar in some earlier incarnation, and the smell of tobacco and coffee mixes on the tongue. The apparent leader of our group settles into a corner of the shop, and he says pleasantly, “so, with whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”

Kanda stands between him and I, and acts something of a buffer. He looks at me haughtily, and makes no move for hospitalities of any kind.

I smile thinly at that. “Pleased to have your acquaintance.” I extend my hand while meeting his gaze. “I’m Allen Walker.”

Kanda looks at my hand and the scowl deepens. He brushes by, murmuring, “It would not do to exchange coffee and conversation with a fool so ignorant as to attack with improper questions and ignore the gracious nature of his host.” Those kind of words with that kind of attitude seems a little odd to me.

I can’t help but stare. “You just don’t want put words behind us.” I say, trying to affirm his meaning. “It seems to me--”

The girl cuts me off. “Forgive him. He’s a little rough around the edges, like I said. And I move to push propriety a little further and ask, Allen Walker,” she’s a polite distance yet, and so her gaze seems pointed rather than challenging. “Why are you looking into such a person here?” The young lady--Lenalee I think someone said-- presses in closer. I can smell some of the shampoo she used on her beautiful hair.

I blink slowly, wondering how I ought to begin.

Kanda rolls his eyes. ““This little bean sprout? Don’t bother asking, Lenalee. He couldn’t answer you straight if he wanted to.” He tosses his high ponytail much as a horse might.

The play between dialogue is hard to catch. There’s almost a certain air of polite civility, but then there’s Kanda.

“My dear, cute, darling little sister,” as though Kanda hadn’t spoken, the brother begins, and suddenly the situation makes more sense. He’s chaperoning her somewhere; he’s not her would-be-lover or friend. “What sort of tea did you want?” His playful nature is almost enough to break the tension.

My eyes focused on Kanda, I pull a polite retort out from behind my dry lips. “Maybe Mister Kanda would be better pleased to continue this conversation elsewhere.” I draw my hand in, revealing the black lines on my left. “Or is it that you just can’t stand touching a Noah with a marking about him?”

Lenalee and her brother exchange glances, and I watch the young lady change her stance subtly. I doubt they know the true significance of the markings on my hand, but the gesture seems to catch their attention.

“Are you here to pick a fight?” Lenalee asks, frustration clear on her voice as any written sign. “Because I won’t have you damaging-- I mean-- hurting--” she stumbles, a blush blooming on her cheeks.

Strange, I think—but it makes sense. She’s trying not to think of Kanda like a doll…something makes him different enough, I suppose. Makes him worth casting off society’s damning, belittling stigmas. Curiouser and curiouser.

By their mix of high speech and low banter, it’s hard to read the mood. But I can guess they’d think better of me if I matched the tone pitch by pitch.

“I’m in training to be the Musician of the People,” I politely interrupt, saving her any further embarrassment. “I hardly would like to soil my reputation. Besides,” I shake my head, regretful. “I can’t afford anyone hearing about that sort of accusation.” I bite my lip and hunch my shoulders just so.

I see the man’s aggressive posture fall away, his expression changing to concerned curiosity. Interesting that he should step into the Game before his younger sister.

“And why’s that?” Kanda snorts, taking the bait. Yosh. Time for me to spill.

Except that it’s not some sob story imagined to get the best in a Con. It’s just the truth. But old habits die hard, I suppose. I still unconsciously try to milk the situation for all it’s worth.

I give a frustrated sigh, shake my head—this time to mark me a frustrated, powerless boy. “Someone heard a rumor that a Noah murdered someone.” I pause, look down. “My description came up.” I open both palms, swinging my arms out in a gesture of peaceful questioning.

Another moment of bated quiet. Time to reflect.

“Jacob Atkins,” Kanda tells them quietly.

I nod, all serious and forthright.

But it breaks in another moment.

Lenalee actually giggles. “Look at you! Playing at finding justice and clearing your name.” She shakes her head, her long hair swaying at her side. “You’d be better off doing nothing. Staying in plain sight and keeping your normal routine.” She cocks her head to the side. “Unless you did kill him. If that’s the case, you’d better run hard and fast.”

I’m stunned for a minute.

The man holds out his hand. “Lenalee, be a dear and go get everyone coffee.” With a start, I realize the bar tend hasn’t come to our table. He’s pointedly ignoring as....

In the same moment, she stiffens, seeing his rebuke for what it was. But then she’s all sweet smiles with a demure bob of the head. “Of course.”

Sitting at the bar, the older brother looks a little out of place, what with his long legs and gangly build, but not out of sorts. He gestures at the more awkward (or is his face always like that?) Kanda vaguely. Then he looks directly at me. “Lenalee doesn’t trust you,” he notes absently. “She’s rather protective of her family, you know.” But his smile is for Kanda. “And I think she has a point…” he glances at Tim again. “Might I enquire…?” His voice is almost tentative .

I smile a little and nod. Tim flutters to his side, and he reaches out—but Tim flits away. “Tim was with…a relative of mine,” I say carefully. One rule. Keep it simple.

Kanda mutters into his shirt sleeve. I only catch “stupid” and “skinny” something or other, and infer the subject of his derision to be me.

“Marian Cross, right?”

I look up in surprise. “Wh—” I blink rapidly, trying to figure out how he could know that name.

“He’s related to you?” Incredulous. He’s looking just over my shoulder, not looking into my eyes at all.

“…well, not really.” I admit. “I don’t think so.” Chagrined and reeling, that’s all I can say for a few seconds. Whistles and bells are going off in my head; I can’t be caught in an outright lie now, or the whole story (true as it is) could fall down around my ears.

“I traveled with him for a while. He was like an uncle to me,” a scheming, blue devil uncle, but good enough. I continue hesitantly, as if ashamed. “I don’t know my blood family. Not a one.”

The brother looks like he’s got more to say, but Kanda’s looking over his shoulders, a　dark expression overtaking his surly glower. “Excuse me.” He says stiffly. “There are some people to talk to you.” Boss. I can almost hear the title he leaves off.

I can’t see anyone, but the man takes Kanda at his word and smiles apologetically. “I’ll be taking my leave here.” He stands up, brushing wrinkles out of his coat. Almost as an afterthought, he adds, “Don’t be so blunt about your behavior, Allen Walker.” He tips his hat. “It’ll only bring trouble.”

The approaching man comes into view from around the corner. He’s dressed in an expensive suit I’ve never seen around our part of town, but the cut and color scream of shady business—or at least poor taste.

 

In the rustle of fine clothes, Lenalee returns with four paper cups. Wordless, she presses one into her brother’s hands and sets the rest on the table. When she’s distracted by so many people coming in, she looks almost vulnerable…

Her hands curl. She looks at me, expressionless. “Be more careful.” She says simply. “And try and keep low, all right?”

It’s odd that she’s so concerned when she’s only just met me. But her large, pretty eyes settle on Kanda then, so I can’t be sure she’s talking to me at all.

 

She pushes a cup at me. “Here.”

And without another word, she trails off after her brother.

Kanda’s eyes roam over me once more, but he makes no move to follow. “You can see yourself out.” He says flatly, and I realize with a flush that neither of his superiors said so much as good bye. I’ve been dismissed by their hired underling, and he’s not polite about it…

Well. I wonder where this little meeting has left me…


	6. Rooftops and Conversations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Kanda follows Allen back, he learns more about the "interloper" than he anticipated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Allen and Kanda aren't best friends. They get on each others' nerves and are generally wrapped up in their own business, and at the best of times they bicker. And yet we like to put them in a romantic situation. This story is not ALL about getting Allen and Yu to realize the like one another...but that's part of it. This story has romantic tension wrapped up in identity crisis and murder mystery. Slightly Crazy!Allen, and Grumpy-Doll Yu.

Chapter 6  
Rooftops and Conversations

(Kanda)

I watch Walker wander through the District until he goes to a street near the Noah district. His white head disappears into a café and then I notice another figure following at a discreet distance. I walk around a nearby shop and come back around from the other side to see the figure slink into the back entrance next to cardboard boxes leaning in a heap alongside a few crates.

I give the building a quick look over. There are several windows on the ground floor, but the first floor looks easier to go in unnoticed. I jump to catch hold of the fire escape and slide along the edge to the window farthest away from where Walker is probably talking. It takes some work, but the window only _just_ cracks open. A few back and forth jiggles the window is wide enough to slip in.

The whole procedure took little less than five minutes, but it sounds like they’re already talking.

“We didn’t find any hint of anything like that—Allen, you need to keep your head down and stay out of this. If we find any connections, we’ll peruse them.”

“What did you find? I think he was connected to something over here. Why else would anyone here know his name?”

“But drugs? I don’t think so. The man was fit, and had a regular job at a sports center.”

A cold sweat runs down my neck and back. I shift awkwardly, and refocus on listening.

“He might have been a dealer,” Allen presses on. “He seems mixed up in something—”

“Something? And how did you get to that conclusion?”

“I was asking around…and some people said something that made me think that one of the syndicates is already aware of him.”

The man makes an exasperated sigh. “You’re attracting the wrong sort of attention. People are going to associate _you_ with a syndicate.” There are sounds of slight shuffling, as though he’s too agitated to stay still. “You’re not acting like a wrongly accused citizen, Allen.” Worry and annoyance color his voice.

The idiot interloper makes equally annoyed noises. “Yes I am! Anyone would try and clear their name,” stubborn determination makes his voice whiny and high pitched. “Justice and truth are very important to the Noah.” I can almost hear his frown. “Or to me, at any rate.”

“Keep your head down. And stop doing things that attract attention to you.”

“Well, then you ought to stop coming around here. This is the third time you’ve come to talk, you know.”

“I am more careful that you. I doubt anyone noticed me coming and going.” Gristly indignation colors his voice. Suddenly, I’m sure he must not be that much older than Allen at all.

I take a few steps backwards to go farther up the stairs to be securely out of sight.　The back door opens and closes.

I wait three minutes, considering my options. Walker probably will stay here and finish whatever work he needs to do, or maybe talk to some more of his resources. It sounds like his story about being accused pans out, so I’m not entirely sure what kinds of sources he might have. I close my eyes, considering my orders and my options, but there’s not enough time to decide anything.

The sound of breaking glass is all I hear of the first shot. The bell clatters and boots thud against the floor.

Allen makes a startled noise, and furniture clatters.

I’m down the stairs faster than they can make their second move and at the assailants’ side before they’re even halfway through the store. The man with the gun is wearing non-descript dark clothing. There’s a bulge where another weapon is, but I disregard him almost immediately. I kick the gun out of his hand, fracturing his wrist, and maybe his arm. It only takes a few moments. My heart isn’t even sounding in my ears.

Allen stares, uncomprehending, beside me. He manages to dodge the second man’s clumsy rush, but can’t move fast enough to keep from being hit by the chair hurled at him. He reels, stumbling backwards.

I give a quick chop to the back of the man’s neck, not caring if I use too much force and paralyze him. He’s unconscious, paralyzed or dead, but either way he falls to the floor.

I narrow my eyes, considering Walker. Maybe he knows more than he’s letting on, if someone is sending men after him. Cheap, unskilled men, but still.

“Come on,” I order, my voice gruff. “You’re easy to find here. You need to go someplace else.” I tug at his apron, pulling him towards the stairs.

“That’s _up_ stairs, Yu.”

“Kanda.” I correct, and shove him a little harder.

“The doors are both downstairs,” he explains, sounding far too normal for some civilian who has just been shot at.

“We’re going out the window. The doors are both likely to be watched.” I open the same window as before, but this time climb to the roof.

Allen chuckles, but climbs up after me with practiced ease. He moves across the dimly lit roofs as easily as he went down the street only fifteen minutes ago. Curious.

We go across a few roofs and down another fire escape to hide among the throngs of people in the street. The bar and club area is just starting to attract the usual crowd. But I take us a winding path away from the clubs and their many eyes, and take him to a street full of rundown apartments. A few buildings in, we go to the second floor of a two story building.

“Where are we going?” Allen asks, speaking for the first time since we started running. “This place looks…”

“Decrepit?” I offer. I shrug. “It will do.” I don’t bother to tell him that the place we’ve stopped before are my rooms, as rarely as I visit them. Not many even in the Quartered District will house a doll. Without official papers, it’s not legal. And I certainly don’t have any papers. I open the door.

Walker looks around hesitantly, and I see he’s holding his arm stiffly. He looks as though he’s ready to fall down, either from injury or shock, but I can’t tell which.

“What’s wrong?” I demand. “Show me your arm.”

Allen looks at me affronted, his light eyes finally leaving the pile of blankets in the corner.

I shrug easily, not bothering to change my stance or change my expression.

“You don’t need to worry.” He meets my gaze squarely, quite willing to smile _just_ enough to show the tips of his teeth.

My responding laugh comes out more like a grunt. “Uh-huh.

With a flash of frustration, he stiffens. I’ve noticed his body movements aren’t the shuffling, cumbersome gait most people do, but more controlled. He's not aware of outside surroundings or carrying any weapons, so I wouldn't peg him as a fighter. But something about him...

"I just need to rest a bit," he shakes his head a little.

With a shrug, I half guide, half push him toward the futon bed roll. Unceremoniously, I lay it out, but Walker is making the strangest of faces. "Stop gawking and sit down."

His smile wavers, and that gold flying thing flits up and over. "I told you, I'm fine."

It might be politeness. It might be fear of germs. I scowl at him either way. "There's nowhere else to sit." I pull it out into the center of the room and sit carelessly, unconsciously sweeping my clothing behind me.

When no cloud of dust or hoard of roaches come out, Walker helplessly follows suit. His movements are also a little showy, but in a (slight) mock of nobility. "Yes, of course." His scowl is much less pronounced; more of a twitch of the lips. He looks around one last time, but at a raise of the eyebrow, he reluctantly settles his gaze on me. "...do you think Link got away all right?" I shrug, and a flicker of something goes over Allen’s face as he confirms that I heard his conversation with the detective. 

"He looks green...not a lot of experience. He might have, but he might not have."　I shrug, indifferent. That detective doesn’t look important no matter his affection for Walker. So long as he doesn’t get in the way…

Walker looks at me, pursing his lips. "So you wouldn't care if he died or not?" With his hands tucked neatly in his lap, it's difficult to tell when they clench, but his body goes stiff. Not so good at grace after all.

I snort. "I don't care." Shifting a little, I just barely manage to keep from touching his arm. It doesn’t _seem_ “fine.” "One less stupid cop."

His correction is deceptively absent-minded. There’s metal under those words. "Detective, actually. Junior Detective Link." Then his eyes track the yellow winged thing.

With his hands in his lap, Walker looks neither like a kid nor an adult when he takes that pose. I don't know quite what to make of him; I've never met anyone so serious about other people's lives.

"A lot of talk for a brat who doesn't defend himself." I settle on, watching him for a reaction.

For a moment, it reminds me of Lenalee...but then, she's not quite the same. He bristles. "I—" For the first time, anger tightens the lines on his face.

"Forget it. I don't care about the detective. So he thinks the stiff wasn't involved with drugs." I shrug. "I doubt he knows much about the Quartered District, or who goes in and out." Not many of the police do…unless they’ve dirtied themselves enough to take active call in the area.

"So you think that Atkins had dealings here?" His voice is far off. Deep in thought, I guess.

"Probably. He was probably killed by someone who does, at least."

His eyes are unfocused but this one hand makes a series of movements—that I think indicates worry. "I didn't smell any blood...so he probably got away..." He fidgets anyways. "I'll go—" Definitely not talking about the stiff now. He’s seeking _live_ trouble.

"Don't." This kid needs things told flat out. "If he's dead already, it won't help, and if he isn't, he won't thank you for walking right into trouble." Do I even need to _say_ it?

 

With a quiet look, he waits a beat. He doesn't say anything, but drops his gaze to look at his hands. Anyone _else_ might even look flustered, or scared, even. Somebody else might think he conceded the point but I decide that Walker only looks annoyed. "Is this your place?"

I nod.

"Why do you live here?"

I shrug. "It's convenient enough."

Walker stares at me. "How, exactly?"

"They don't ask for papers. It's close to the Black Tower," I name the headquarters. Really, it's a collection of buildings and a club, not an actual tower. Everybody knows there’s no tower around here, but we call it that anyways.

"Papers," he says reflectively. His expression is contemplative. He looks up and gestures lightly with the one hand. "...dolls are quartered too, then?" he shrugs in a gesture of helplessness he doesn't display. "Like the Noah."

I shake my head slowly. "Technically, I'm not Quartered. I'm ignored. I don't have the right to exist without an owner and property papers." I look him in the eye, daring him to say something.

This kid would probably try and stare death down himself. It's odd. Most people can't make eye contact with me for more than a minute. "...an owner." he repeats. "Wouldn't that be Lenalee?"

Taken aback, I blink. "Why would you think her?" I consider Walker, thinking. "Komui is higher ranked." 

With an expression most would call “innocent,” he continues glibly, "She seemed...to think of you differently...maybe she lets you have more freedom?"

I chuckle. "I have freedom. No one is my owner. There aren't any papers because I didn't finish my training."

He looks reflectively at my hands, and his eyes stray to where I keep my knives. "...you didn't finish training." A smile quirks his lips out of that polite, attentive expression. "So...what does that mean?"

I don’t know what to say, so I just say what comes to mind. "I ran away...someone convinced me to." I swallow hard, bile coming up in my throat.

Allen looks at me with pronounced interest that he tries to hide under a sympathetic smile. I don’t buy it.

“It was a long time ago.” I insist.

He tilts his head, a question on his lips like a child with a new toy. But then his eyes slide to the side—not where the gold thing is sitting, but towards the window. It’s like his eyes go out of focus, but the one seems to glimmer just a fraction. Like cut glass catching the light and making a rainbow in reds. Very odd.

“People tend to think of time in different ways.” His gaze drifts back to me forcefully, as though he’s trying to keep from looking at whatever he sees towards the window. I get the feeling he’s not exactly talking to me.

On that hunch, I wait.

“A year is measured the same, but it feels different to each person.” He continues, as though elaborating to a question I didn’t ask.

“Are you trying to tell me that I’m too _young?_ ” I demand.

Walker starts. “What? No.” He looks at me with an odd expression. Something like embarrassment and pride all at once. “The people…I mean, Noah…age differently is all. Time doesn’t always seem the same.”

My eyes narrow and my lips press into a thin line “Yes. Dolls also have a faster maturation stage, but we will _outlast_ a human many times over.” Provided, of course, we don’t die by overexertion or plain bad luck. “And besides,” I smirk. “This is as old as I’ll ever look.”

“Oh.” He blinks and leans forward, a childish expression overtaking his mannerliness. “So, how old are you?” A smile plays from his eyes and his lips. His whole face is alight.

I feel myself stiffen and turn away. “I was technically…born…nine years ago.” I growl a little, unconsciously but to good effect. A lot of his mischief bleeds out. “But dolls develop in the…womb…a sort of well of life…before we’re born.”

Walker nods dumbly. “You’re nine.” He repeats. That’s always the part that gets through thick people’s heads. Idiot.

“I’m the same as any sixteen or seventeen year old.” I insist, and I can feel my eye twitch.

He shrugs. “Then technically, or comparatively, we’re about the same age.” He draws himself up, his chest puffing out. “But I’m actually forty-two.”

I stare at him.

He laughs out loud. “No, really. Noah age differently than people too; there’s a higher number of people born with special abilities…and they can live for years and years.” He offers an apologetic smile that looks entirely too cheerful.

I shrug. “Whatever. You can grow old and die slower, but I’ll still outlive you.” I say loftily.

He giggles. Actually _giggles._ “Maybe? But the oldest Noah I know looks like a young girl…no older than thirteen.”

Giving him a pointed look, I scoff. “Sure. And mentally, you’re thirteen too, right?”

He only laughs. “We do get along for the most part…” he chuckles some more. “But it’s true, we do mature slower than human people.”

I decide it’s time to change the subject. “Do you plan on continuing researching that guy?”

His cheer drops considerably. “I can’t exactly—”

“I thought as much…”

I stand up to make some hot tea, and when I come back, Allen is lying down on my futon. A lot of the energy is gone out of him, and even the flying thing—a golem, I wonder?—has settled down to lazy, occasional flap from a sentinel perch from my pillow. 

I settle to the floor to sip my tea and meditate. I certainly have enough to think about.


	7. Allen is Hired

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kanda and Allen are joined by Lenalee. After, Kanda goes to question Lavi about the situation.

**Chapter 7  
Allen is Hired**

When I open my eyes again, it’s early evening. The light has gone dim, but it’s not true dark yet.

The way I fell asleep here surprises me more than I can say. A childhood of wariness, years of stress under Cross’ tutelage, and then I come here. To what effect? Sleeping on strangers’ futon and talking entirely too much.

I can tell Yu’s not been idle while I napped. The place has been cleaned up—there’s less dust, and what looks like a drinkable bit of water.

I sit up. Some of the pain has turned into stiffness, and vice versa. I’m likely to be sore for days if past experience tells me anything.

“You’re awake.”

I nod vaguely, and absently make my way to my feet. Tim flutters a greeting, and through my fuddled state, I manage to somehow do a turn of some kind, balancing on the tips of my toes to stretch most fantastically.

Yu smirks. “You look like some lazy animal.” He comments wryly. “Just out of hibernation and ready to do _anything_ at a slight provocation.”

With a prim smile, I attempt a better response. But I can only yawn and stretch some more. “Mm?” Finding the words I want is a little…beyond my abilities at this point. Eventually it’ll come to me.

Yu only laughs. That too surprises me so much that I’ve _no_ idea what it means.

Tim flutters at me from the side. He flashes his teeth and pink tongue, so I remember another morning priority. “D’you—” a yawn overtakes me for a second, “—have any food?” I ask blearily.

With derisive shake of his head, Yu _looks_ like a warrior’s wet dream—or that’s what Cross would have said. Just thinking it makes me redden.

With a snarky sort of smirk, he raises his chin. “I’ll go get something to eat.” He concludes, but the words sound more like a jibe. “Soba all right with you?”

I nod lightly. “Uh-huh.” Absently combing my fingers through my hair, I add, “Soba…somehow, it suits you…”

Yu stiffens. “What are you mumbling about, bean sprout?”

Tim lands on my head. Just as absently, I tug him off and into my arms—he’s gotten bigger for some reason—oh, but maybe that’s because I’m stretching him. Hmm. “Nothing.” I reply slowly. “It’s just not a surprise is all.”

There’s a flicker of memory behind my closed eyelids—flashes of explosive light, heat and extreme sensory input from my left arm. Like every millimeter tingles under the strain of—something. And…also…long, black hair flowing….a serene, finally free of pain and—

I shake my head to clear the fog from my mind.

Kanda looks at me blankly. I can’t read his expression at all, but at last he nods curtly. “Whatever.”

“Bring something for Tim too?” I pull his wings, still slightly preoccupied. The church members say that those random flashes…are memories. Truth buried in the subconscious, bearing witness to the god of rebirth’s favor.

When I look up, Yu’s already gone.

I stretch quietly, removing gloves and rolling up my sleeves, still thinking. Slowly, I begin a routine I learned as a child, loosening the muscles and beginning to relieve some of the pain.

Without thinking too much of it, I start a vocal warm up too, trying for some sense of reality.

…that face…I get the feeling I’ve seen him before…

Juxtaposed with the previous image, a death mask, in its white relief and stunningly despairing expression, rushes in on me.  
I can see a weeping soul. A parted mouth that cannot scream. Evil magic I’ve heard of again and again in stories of the church, but nothing I want to dwell on.

“Is that some kind of kata?”

I whirl around. The voice had come from behind, at the door. I can see her—Lenalee. She’s dressed in a neat outfit that half speaks of uniform and half of girlish fashion. Her expression is embarrassed, but a smile teases her lips.

“Sorry to surprise you. I wanted to talk with Kanda.”

My arms drop to my sides. She’s...here. I offer a weak smile. “Ms. Lenalee.” I bob a fraction of a bow, desperate for more time to get my thoughts in order, and my glove back on. It’s rather difficult when my stomach is so empty, and my wits are still sleeping. “He’s gone out...” I manage, slipping the gloves back on, and unrolling my sleeves. 

She nods, as if it isn’t the most obvious thing I’ve said. “I see. I’m more surprised to see _you_ here.” she offers a girlish smile, turning her attention to the half-cleaned room. Her friendly expression doesn’t falter, and she drops her gaze. “He doesn’t associate...which...is to say, he’s a bit of a loner.” she fidgets.

Relaxing a bit, I return to my stretching. “Oh, I thought as much...”

She smiles. “You getting along then?” Her eyes travel to my bed-head, and I really have no idea what she’s thinking now.

“Um…” I shrug. “Well enough?”

With a helpless look around the room, Lenalee continues on a slightly more serious topic. Her hands fall to her side. “Find anything more about Atkin’s murder?” She genuinely looks concerned. Even still, it feels wrong, somehow. Like her concern for the murder victim and her concern for a friend’s lost possession are one and the same.

I shake my head.

Lenalee bites her lip. “I’ve heard a few things around town,” she begins, one hand fiddling with the clasp of her purse. “People knew him around here,” she begins. “Do you really think they’ll talk to you? He probably had dangerous connections...” she looks me in the eyes. “Wouldn’t getting involved be dangerous?”

“I think I can learn things even if they don’t want to talk to me,” I begin just as carefully, but stop when I hear something behind me. Some rustle of cloth or creak of board, maybe. Or maybe just the feeling that someone is watching. I look around and see that Kanda is back from his errand. “Hello,” I smile.

Lenalee smiles too, and goes over to make some small talk in Chinese—Cantonese, maybe? I make out only a few words—a negative (Kanda) and some question words (Lenalee). It’s a very short conversation.

She turns around and is talking to me again after hardly any time at all. “Actually, I had something for you, Allen.” She rustles in her bag and pulls out an envelope.

I take it from her, careful for my gloved hands not to touch her pale ones. “May I?”

Lenalee nods, her eyes serious.

I open the letter to find a list of….a mixture of things. “Eh?” It’s not at all what I expected. “Weekly comic magazine, motor oil, lotion, petri dishes?” I read off a few items at random, turning them into a question.

Lenalee smiles. “Look at the bottom,” she urges. “That seal is from my brother. Only show it to someone if you have no other option, or they hint that they want to see it.” She crosses her arms, and I wonder what her body language is telling me. At my lack of reaction, she shakes her head. “It shows that you’ve been hired,” she explains.

“Oh!” I give a nod, not sure I should say thank you or not. “Informal permission, or in code?” I wonder. “Or am I supposed to pick these things up on the way?”

Lenalee shakes her head, “Come on, Allen. Be realistic.” She smiles. “You’re just looking for some things on a friend of the community.” She’s certainly earnest. “I…” she hesitates. “I’m sorry. We seem to be misunderstanding one another.”

I cough lightly, trying to forget all of the warnings I’ve ever heard about the Black Order. Cross _hates_ it, Tyki doesn’t trust it, and half the Quartered District is afraid or angry, the other half in awe. It’s not exactly an _easy_ group to work for. “It’s not that I won’t do it,” I find myself saying, “But—”

She cuts in almost immediately, before I’ve even thought what I would have said. “You’ve heard all sorts of things about the Black Order,” she says. Her eyes are wide, her expression hurt. The way her lips tilt, the incline of her chin—it all reads as an innocent, charming girl. “It’s not anything bad…” she wavers a minute, as if unsure of my reception.

I nod, waiting for her to continue.

 _She’s lying, you know._ I want to ignore that.

 _Everybody lies,_ I think back.

“The order…it’s my family.” Her hands move in a tiny circle to include herself, Kanda, and presumably her real brother. “We’re a tight knit group. When you’re in the Quarter, you have to work together, or everyone you care about will suffer. From discrimination to outright violence; you should know that, Allen.” She allows a hint of awkwardness to slip into her voice. “We just work to protect each other, and the people of the Quarter.”

I wonder if she really believes that. “Like a police force on the people’s side?” I ask innocently.

She scoffs aloud. “We take care of the needs others won’t. We don’t police anybody but the people directly concerned.”

 _Vague,_ I note. “Don’t you have your own information gatherers?” I persist.

She nods slowly, reluctantly. “Yes, but if we send any of them, people will know we’re looking. One way or another, someone will figure out that they’re related to us.”

I doubt that using me would be any different, but maybe Lenalee knows better. I nod my assent. “Mm-hmm.”

She looks vaguely annoyed now. “What?” she demands. “Your Cross’s almost-nephew, right?” she demands, a bit of temper flaring. It’s kind of cute…like she brushed a bit of pink on her cheeks. “I would have thought he’d—” she bites her tongue.  
She takes a breath, and begins abruptly again. “My brother told me about him.” She settles. “So you’ll be fine.”

I mirror her posture and sigh. I turn to Kanda. “Can we please have breakfast now?” I ask plaintively.

Lenalee’s cheeks redden further, as if she’s only just remembered. “…you’re still half asleep, aren’t you?” she complains.

“…and hungry, too.” I grin sheepishly. “While we eat, can you tell me about what you heard?” I think back. “In town, you said.”

Kanda obligingly crosses the distance between us. He holds out a tray full of heavy plastic bowls—the fake lacquer kind with a lid that delivery places usually carry. He doesn’t say anything, but distributes the chopsticks with a solemnity most people reserve for formal banquets, not delivery.

Lenalee tosses her hair again. “I guess.” She huffs. She gives Kanda a look, and decides against sitting down on the newly cleaned floor cushions. Remaining as she is, she settles her stance to something less defensive. “Will you listen now?” she asks.

I nod as I take the cover off the first bowl. “Yes, of course.” Tim has bounded down from my head and his tongue is practically falling out of his face. I offer him the first noodles, but keep the bowl out of his reach.

Lenalee is staring. Somewhat incredulously. “…what did you want to know?” she asks, watching the golem with an expression between dread and fascination.

“Just what you heard,” I say around a mouthful of noodles.

Somehow, she can interpret that. She nods slowly. “Um, it seems like most people are surprised he died. They’re also surprised anyone’s asking about it.” She shrugs. “…people like him…” she shakes her head.

Kanda clears his throat. “Bean sprout.” He says calmly. “Slow down before you choke.”

I ignore that, and gesture in a way that I hope conveys, _continue._

“Does that mean you’ll help us out?”

I nod. “I said I would.”

She grins. “I’m glad.” With a look from Kanda to me, she fidgets a little. “I guess I’ll leave you boys in peace…” she murmurs satisfactorily. “We’ll talk about your progress in…a few days, ok?” She pauses. “If you have anything important to say between then, let Kanda know, and he’ll get word to us.”

Kanda nods stiffly. He doesn’t say anything.

I place the bowl down for long enough to smile. “Thank you, Lenalee.”

She’s already out the door, but her smile is bright. I think her presence will linger here a while yet.

Kanda lets me finish the soba before asking, “…what are your plans?”

I shrug. “I can go look around some more…” I say slowly.

“No. Not until tomorrow. You can make sure you’re seen walking home, being friendly, but don’t agitate anymore people for one day.” He shakes his head, annoyance clear on his finely chiseled face. _Oh, gods, did I just think that?_

I nod slowly. “Then I’ll go back…see if anyone on my side of the fence has heard much.”

Kanda looks much relieved, and nods curtly. A ghost of a smile twitches his lips. “Good.”

I look at him hesitantly. “If you wanted…” I suggest tentatively. “You could come see the People. When you’re free.”

He shakes his head briefly. Then as if reflectively, he nods. “Not tonight, but…sometime.” He offers. He looks as awkward as I feel. “I’d see you home…” he says reluctantly.

I bristle. “Do you think I’m a baby?” I snap. “I can make my own way home.”

Looking relieved all over again, Kanda nods. “Then I’ll see you later.” That’s it. No explanation about his own plans, no nothing. Very curious, Kanda. Very curious.

He and I split the third bowl of noodles, and between him and Tim’s excited flying, the night draws to a close.

I smile. Things are turning up.

(Kanda Seeks Information)

Allen loafed around my apartment for a bit after Lenalee left. Maybe he sensed my impatience to get to work, or maybe not, but either way he left. I don’t need to bother hiding where I’m headed or make excuses. 

The cool autumn air makes me tug my coat around my neck. The winding, crisscross shortcuts through the District are half as crowded as it might be in the evening, but still people watch. Out in daylight, my tell-tale Doll features get stares and whispers when people notice, but most ignore me, either because they've seen me around long enough, or because they think I just have good looks and a smooth gait. 

I pass a few eateries and make my way to a small room behind the only library — part of a school— in this part of town. I hear a whirl of mechanical noises and voices before I even get close. 

“Turn those things off,” I grunt.

Lavi sits up straighter, his look of concentration turning to cautious suspicion. His features fall into an easy, relaxed expression when he sees me in the window. “Yu, you really ought to knock,” he laughs, flashing his teeth in an easy-going smile.

“I have a question for you.” I jump down from the window, pacing over a comfortable distance from the noisy machines.

Lavi cocks his head, looking surprised. “Oh? Personal or business?” He gets up to begin pushing pause on the recordings. “Because I could give your some great advice for fashion, girls, and how to get cheap ren—”

Resisting the urge to roll my eyes, I take a step forward. “Business. Do you know anything about Jacob Atkins?”

Lavi looks at me, his friendly mask firmly in place. Even still, he looks at me sharply. “The murder victim?” he confirms.

I nod.

“Who’s asking?”

“I am. It’s not technically Black Order business.” I shrug. Or maybe it is, considering the seal. But I push that thought away as I try to settle on some way to describe Walker, to explain away my own involvement. With a slight concession to his thirst for knowledge, I continue relatively quickly. “Someone I know has been looking into the matter.” I settle on.

“But it’s not Black Order business.” He mutters, flicking the last button, and pausing the last recording on his computer. He leans back in his chair, looking at me curiously. “First, tell me about your friend. Have we met?” he waggles his eyebrows. “Is it a pretty girl?”

I snort. He’s always trying to keep that impression. “It’s the newest hireling. Walker.” As an afterthought, I add, “A Noah.” Without making another noise, I shift my weight to even my stance. Ready, just in case. “He’s been hired to look into the situation.”

“And yet you’re the one here, asking me. If he was hired, it’s the Order’s business, Yu,” Lavi tilts his head back, settling into a napping pose. “Exactly how long have you known him?”

“One day.”

Lavi snorts. “And it took me how long to even get you to acknowledge my ‘hello’s? You ignored me way longer.” he laughs. “Ok, tell me what you know.” He looks chagrined. “I was ignoring that little situation…” he idly taps one of the hand-held recorders.

I shift on my feet and resist the urge to give a salute I learned years past. Lavi isn’t my master. I don’t need to be submissive or respectful of him. 

“Jacob Atkins, killed outside of the Quartered District the night before last. No clear suspects. Some witnesses claim to have seen a Noah at the scene at the time of the murder. Walker talked to a detective—apparently Walker himself is their only suspect. Junior Detective Link said that they didn’t have any drug connection leads.” I pause for breath. “Can you get the autopsy report?”

Not looking the least bit fazed, Lavi nods, already pulling up some program on his computer. He types and clicks for a few moments, and then begins reading a page. “It’s not computerized yet. All I’ve got is some schedule…our guy will be looked at by the end of the week, probably. Looks like they’ve got a lot of stiffs, and not so much staff.” He shrugs. “Preliminary guess work thinks poison and strangling.”

I nod slowly. “Poison…” I frown, thinking.

Spinning lazily in his chair now, Lavi asks slowly, “How did Lenalee and Komui react?”

I pause, considering the question. “They seemed interested in Walker. Talked about hiring him.” I frown, trying to remember our first meeting. “She said I didn’t need to work on my own or neutralize threats before that, though.”

“And when they hired him?” He completes one full turn. Spins some more.

“Lenalee was by herself. Carefree, smiling. ” I shrug. “When he asked about why she wanted to hire him…she talked about the Order being her family. It was….” I stall, at a loss for words.

With a look like vague interest, he touches a foot to the ground. “Why would she want some young Noah to look into things?” Lavi muses.

“Ah, Walker was shot at and attacked the first night he was asking around.” I remember. “Two men. Nondescript clothes. Good gun, poor skills. Cheap help. Don’t know who hired them.” This might have been why they decided to hire Allen. Clearly, someone was interested in something he found or knew.

“A quick job,” Lavi guesses. “How soon after the detective left?”

“Only a few minutes…I don’t think it was the detective.” I offer grudgingly.

“Unless he signaled that he was in…but no, he wouldn’t have needed to talk to your Allen if he was just signaling.” He gets a thoughtful look. “How soon after Komui talked to him?” His eyes are shrewd, calculating.

I take a breath and hold it. “A few hours.” _That_ was an interesting thought.

Lavi stops spinning. Looks at me. “Anyone else figure out that he was asking around? Show interest, I mean?” His tone is casual, but I know he’s thinking at top speed.

“…no. I don’t think so. People just kept quiet from what I can tell.” I pause before asking, “You hear anything from the other crime families?”

“Nothing related…but there was something….a few weeks back.” He screws up his face. “Ahh, what was it.” He runs his fingers through his hair, like he’s trying to remember. Too bad I’m not buying it. “Tell me about the conversation they had when they hired your Allen.”

“Stop calling him that.”

“What?”

“Your Allen. He’s not.” I glower and shift on my feet. “She gave him a sealed letter. Allen wanted more information about the Order. She didn’t tell him much, just got him to agree to keep looking into things, and to agree to working for them.”

“Wasn’t Allen curious as to why she wanted to hire a green Noah? What did she say about that?”

I frown. “I already told you— she was defensive. Didn’t tell him much.” I grit my teeth, wracking my brain for more details, but nothing comes to mind.

“She wanted a Noah...because...” Lavi _hms_ and fidgets, frowning to himself, now. “Who got shot at....” He looks at me again. “Bring Allen Walker over and maybe he can tell me himself. You’re memory sucks, Yu.” His eye crinkles, and he flashes a smile.

My lip twitches into a scowl, and I pull myself back out through his window. “My memory is fine,” I grumble. “You ask for too many details.”

The night air is cool around me. I wonder who Atkins was, and why Lenalee at least seems interested in him. Or is she really interested in Allen himself?

Gold eyes, _but his eyes are silver...._ , and white hair are burned into my mind’s eye, merging into a hazier image. The remembered reflection of a dream...and Alma. It’s all I can do to keep walking straight.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? Just three more chapters. :) Unless you ask for more details somewhere, anyway.


	8. Melon Soda and Trouble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lenalee says something that causes Kanda to remember parts of his past. Allen attempts to cope.

“Those men hanging around the bar have been eyeing me for the better part of a quarter hour,” I inform Komui.

He sips his melon soda, and casually flips through his comic magazine. “Maybe they want to dance. Why don’t you go find out what they want then, m’kay?” He waves his hand distractedly, gesturing for me to move away. “Get me another soda, while you’re at it.”

I pull a face, but of course, with his nose in a book, Komui hardly sees. I make my way to the bar, putting a hand on the counter. 

“Lemon water and another melon soda on his bill,” I jerk my chin towards Komui, who is all but hidden behind his floppy hat and comic book.

I casually glare at the men eying me. “What? Your attention is getting on my nerves.”

“Who paid for a piece of work like you?” the runtiest of them sneers. “You’re too skinny to be—”

“That piece of shit isn’t owned by any one.” Another leers. “He’s rented out.” The three of them share a laugh.

I cock my head and snort. “I don’t care what you think.” I scoff and show a flash of teeth. I loosen a knife from its sheath and feel it drop into my hands. I keep my hands low so the bartender can’t see. “You’re right enough about me not being owned, but the rest?” I tilt the blade just enough to let the three stooges see a flash of dark metal. “Is crap.” 

I move subtle and fast—enough to look like a blur in the eyes of even trained fighters— probably unnoticed by idiots— and sheathe my knife.

I show them my back for the briefest of seconds, and whirl about with the two drinks in my hands. They finally react to my movement and flinch. I stretch my lips into an approximation of a smile and walk smoothly back to where Komui reads.

“Thank you.” He says, not raising an eyebrow.

I don’t comment, instead, focusing on getting through the rest of the day. 

________________________________________

* * *

Coming back to one of the Order’s bases is like going home. So says Lenalee, anyways. For me, it’s more like going to see my superior for a mission, or, more rarely, to be scolded. Regardless, whenever I walk in, people stop talking, or start whispering. 

Today, they whisper.　Voices sound around me simultaneously.

"— bribes cost too much—"

"—asking around—"

"—attract too much attention"

I frown, and grind my teeth, trying to remember something I might have done to get the herd talking. Nothing comes to mind. My lips feel like they could be permanently stretched into a scowl.

I walk through the common room, looking for Komui or Lenalee. Even Reever or Johnny might be able to shed some light on my situation, or at least tell me what I was summoned for.

I pause before the door into the hallway, giving the people a final look over before I search the break room, experimental room and practice room. No one I want to talk to is there. I sigh, resigned to walk about the whole building looking around. Komui is almost certainly not in his office, but I’ll check there as a last resort.

I’ve barely made it three meters down the hallway when a white-clothed arm waves at me from behind a vending machine. 

I scowl.

“Kanda, here,” Komui whispers none-too-quietly.

I close the gap, eying the small space curiously. How did he even fit behind there?

“Let’s go to my office,” he suggests. “We’ll talk on the way.” Komui slides out from his hidey-hole, dusting off his lab coat. Wearing that, he’s sure to be up to no good.

I shift on one foot awkwardly, waiting for him to say something, but Komui just starts walking.

“You know we pay bribes to keep help certain authorities look the other way concerning your papers, right?”

I nod. Bribes and favors. I don’t like where this is going…did one of them ask for a favor that went badly? That might explain the hostile atmosphere.

Komui fishes in his pocket for a pen. Finding one, he smiles. “So, you can talk to Reever. He’ll explain.” Komui actually pushes me into his office, and turns on his heel, leaving me in the door.

“Eh,” Reever clears his throat, frowning and squinting at me from Komui’s desk. He flips through files and papers, but sets them back down to meet me at the door.

“Hello Kanda. He say anything useful?”

I shrug. “Something about bribes.”

“Ah. Well,” Reever sighs. “I’ll try to keep this short.” He rubs his temple with two fingers absently. “We have a new police officer in our part of town. A greedy one, it looks like

“We already paid your bribe. But he’s been asking questions, and digging up people to testify seeing you. And trying to prove that you are a doll, considering you don’t have any of the usual identifying tattoos or visible conditioning.” He pauses in his rambling explanation. “Except for your hair, I suppose.”

I nod slowly, trying to see where he’s headed with this. Behind us, the door to the office swings open. Lenalee stands there, and I get the sense that the floor is moving beneath me. Lenalee’s face shines like a light is pointed at her. 

“Kanda! There you are,” she walks briskly, her heels clacking on the floor. 

Reever nods to Lenalee, but continues speaking to me. “So, we’ll have to have you stay low. Take a few days off,” he raises both eyebrows. “Stay out of sight. We don’t want the police finding any hard evidence that you’ve gone solo and thrown off your conditioning—”

Reever’s words are like the sounds of water dripping into a deep well, at first the sound echoes and reverberates, but the words keep going, making the sound overlap. Something like white noise fills my head.

Lenalee steps closer, concern in her eyes. She nods in agreement. “…it might tip the scales to make some pig-headed police try to take care of our little home,” she might be saying. 

Or maybe it wasn’t either of them, not Reever or Lenalee. Maybe it was Komui. Or something I heard in the past.

A flash, of color, a face. Alma . 

His face grim, no longer smiling. I remember Alma spinning and whirling, mixing in dance moves with lethal martial arts, his clothes dappled with blood.

 _“Get you out of here, Yu. I’ll catch up.”_ He neatly decapitates a trainer, oblivious to the spray of blood. _“CROW will be here…you need to go.”_

Flashes of ice-hot color, snatches of conversation float through my mind. “ _You saw a ghost?”_ he laughs, his smile bright and amused. “ _Do you remember anything else?”_ His grin widens. 

Of course I do. I remember more than anyone, as far as I know. More than Alma, who woke up first.

Reever frowns at me. His lips move.

Alma’s training was nearly complete, then. He already had the beginnings of the distinctive body-guard tattoos reserved for Doll bodyguards. Beautiful thugs for the upper class.

Lenalee stands before me, her slender arms reaching out to grasp my shoulder. I block her hand, flinching away.

I remember Lenalee, then, crying about some preserved slight in the Order. Vowing to learn as much as she could, to progress through the ranks. _“I’ll get stronger and smarter than anyone,” she vows._

Rever opens the office door, disappearing from my line of vision.

Lenalee stares openly, a young girl dressed in a China dress hovering over me. Me, huddled in a dirty back ally, shivering and wild. I don’t remember how I got there.

 _“How much do you remember?”_ Alma presses, sidling up close.  
We were far away from the training center, but not so far that people didn’t recognize us for what we were. An old man crossed the street to avoid walking next to us.

Alma puts his hands on his hips. _“Well? Tell me what you remember,” he orders, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “I’ve got something good for you,”_ a flash of the contents in his pockets. Some pills in a plastic bag.

The light is fading, the noise increasing. I don’t remember fighting, but my whole body aches. Blood on my hands. My blood all around me…

Something small moves in front of my eyes. A pen light. Komui is moving a pen light while Reever’s lips move.

Nearby, Alma lies in a heap next to the garbage. He doesn’t move, his eyes stare blankly. His chest and arms look solid red for all the gashes and cuts there.

My stomach trembles, clenches. My mind is in a haze, numb.

Lenalee and Komui, looking at me closely. Komui looks up and down the street, motions for his sister to come closer. They exchange words. I can’t make them out.

Even when Lenalee comes right up to me, holding her hand out, I can’t make out the words. Don’t want to.

 _My body convulses with pain, my eyes wide and dry. “Bad reaction,” Alma had mused. “I wonder if you have a different strain of DNA?”_ Wondering about my reaction just like he wondered if my preference for soba was genetic.

Lenalee tries again. I don’t even blink.

My hands are still red…gleaming and shiny. But no, they’re clean now…dirty from gutter water and rain. Slick and clotting on my hands, in my hair, in my mouth.

I close my eyes, willing myself to stop remembering . Live in the present. Forget.

“—never seen him like this. How do—”

“You want me to disappear.” My tongue feels thick, my throat gritty. “I’ll do it. If you want me, you’ll have to find me.” I turn my back on both of them, not caring that showing my back to them could be considered a gross insult.

Memories and fragments of speech are on the tip of my mind’s eye. The familiar setting seems to blur into the outside, into the street, into my apartment. But I can’t stay here, either…

I freeze, wondering where to go.

Anywhere. Nowhere. Somewhere people won’t see me, won’t look.

I have to find him.

Alma….

* * *

(Allen)

Opening doors really shouldn’t be hazardous to one’s health.

I take my eyes off the handle only to find a pair of knives whizzing toward me. The flight path is dead on, too.

Somehow, I manage to step aside. The knives clang against the rail and the rain-guard— only to reappear in Kanda’s capable hands. “Get lost.” He growls. Honestly.

 _That wasn’t very polite,_ Neah muses.

“Excuse me for caring.” I snap back. For some reason, my temper gets the better of me when dealing with this guy. He defies my training.

But Kanda’s eyes aren’t focused. He’s staring at me without seeing me. It’s...actually kind of disturbing. Something about it puts me on edge. 

“Stupid Kanda.” I snap my fingers— which doesn’t work well with gloves.

He finally seems to register exactly who’s standing in the doorway. “Bean sprout.” He glowers.

I stiffen. He’s...ready to lunge. “Stupid Kanda, am I a guest in your, uh, your place, or not?”

Kanda only narrows his eyes. He motions with the two knives, and inexplicably, they flash. White hot light—

 _Hmm. I suppose I didn’t take Kanda’s sword._ Neah murmurs, and he shows me a segment of images, a memory of—

“Get the hell out.” Kanda’s voice is low. There’s real force to his words.

Since he can’t seem to follow civil gestures, I take a few steps closer, one hand on my hips. “You think you can disappear for so long? We’re supposed to—”

“—shut up.” He spits. His skin, ordinarily a healthy peach of smooth porcelain, is drained white. There’s not a hint of the flu (symptoms or otherwise) in the district, but a hint of sweat glimmers on his brow. I don’t know if dolls get sick or not, but he looks ready to snap.

Concern mingles with anger. I try to behave gentlemanly, to show him I’m only here in his interest. “When’s the last time you ate?”

“Everything’s gone to shit.”

“Ok...perhaps you ought to keep to a liquid diet until you’re feeling better.” I respond slowly.

He only laughs.

I should ignore it. But impatience snatches my tongue and angry words come out.

“Fuck you and your assumptions. The pool should never have spit you out of it if all. you. _ever_ do is repeat the same mistakes!” It surprises me more than Kanda, I think, that.

Silence meets my ears.

I hurriedly grab for something to say to soften the blow— but all I manage is, “Snap out of it.” Not exactly the best way to say it.

Kanda grits his teeth. He shakes his head, and his bangs fall into his eyes. “What do you know?” he shoots back, advancing menacingly. He holds the knives loosely, but I know instinctively he’s ready to do some kind of damage that I have very little idea how to block.

Cross mostly taught me to swindle, con, and out-maneuver. I can run fast and dodge, but knives...are rather dodgy business. Especially knives that act like swords.

How does he have such a long reach?

Tim goes from my shoulder to flit between us. His motions are cautious, not lazy, and the barest hint of teeth sparks my attention.

“Fine! Have it your way. I’ll go.” I stick out my chin, edging backwards slowly. “Tell me about it when you’re feeling like less of a prick.”

The doorknob pokes into my back, and only then do I turn around. Once outside, I realize that I’m not Yu’s only visitor today.

A red haired boy with an eye patch stands before me. “You must be Allen. Is Yu in? I think I have some information about something you two were looking into.”

* * *


	9. Falling: answers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lavi discovers (and shares) what's been going on.

“Sorry to intrude. It’s Lavi.” He waves at himself.

Lavi smiles thinly. To me, he looks like a washed out ghost, and I say as much. No one pays that any mind, though, as Kanda is busy gritting his teeth, his mouth like a slash against his pretty face.

Lavi touches his forehead, and transforms the gesture to a light-hearted wave. He smiles a little more freely. “I heard you had a bit of a…episode, Kanda.” He hides his expression by closing the one eye, and continues acting as though the whole of it just a joke.

My ghost—or god as he might be preferred to be thought of—is strangely quiet. The haunting caused by the dead man is what brought him back. After I had almost forgotten, since all those years passed.

Kanda tiptoes over to the corner, all nerves and hard edges. He looks ready to attack if you so much as sneeze.

“The patrol is looking for you, and then not, they say.” He waggles his fiery eyebrows. “Both of you.” With a look at Allen, he offers one hand. “Pleased to meet you, by the way.”

I’m not so inclined to agree with the sentiment, but I return his smile with a polite one. It feels broken on my lips. “Yes, we make a great pair that way, don’t we?” Both wanted men.

Kanda shrugs. “I told you to leave.”

“Then why do you stay where we can find you?” Lavi retorts. “Stay down for another while. Maybe let Allen take you to his place. In a few weeks, one will remember what this was about.” His voice isn’t soothing so much as it’s practical.

Kanda’s almost got a reign on his emotions. He almost looks normal again.

“Begging your pardon.” I smile through the words. “But I think you said you had _news._ ”

Lavi nods. “Yes.” He agrees. “But I don’t know if Kanda here is ready to listen. Anyways, Allen, could you tell me a little about what Lenalee and Komui said when they _hired_ you?”

It’s an interesting approach. I cock my head, considering. “Well, I think Lenalee, everyone in the area, really, knew more about the guy than they were letting on.”

I drift into silence, drudging up the memories. There was Lenalee making a thin excuse about wanting to talk to Kanda, but then offering to hire me to look into things. “She was acting very cautious.”

Lavi nods impatiently. “And how did she treat the details of the case?”

I shake my head. “I remember she said, ‘people like him’ and ‘people were surprised he died.’ That means people knew about him-- he had some sort of reputation. I just can’t figure out what, and people aren’t talking. And for some reason she didn’t want to use their regular contacts.” I turn to look at Kanda, still standing very still in the corner. “Don’t you know anything about that? What are the rumors in the Order? Why not use the regular contacts?”

Kanda scowls, but says nothing. Unexpectedly, the “old” case hasn’t budged him from his obsessive behavior.

Lavi gives Kanda a long look, but ultimately doesn’t challenge him. He bites his lip and furrows his eyebrows. “Wait a minute, wait a minute, Atkins was killed last week. There was another thing people were talking about-- the week before. Someone was killed-- er, taken care of, by the Black Order. A,” Lavi waves his hand, trying to come up with the word. “lackey? Anyways, an underling was taken out by an assassin for passing on the wrong information to their boss. By a guy known for strangling people... But that assassin didn’t show up for a later job.” Lavi snaps, as though he just figured something important out.

Lavi’s eye is bright, excited. Just like any proud student about to give the answer to a particularly difficult question.

_He thinks he’s got it…_

I try and brush the noise away, try not to listen to the melodic comments in my head.

“How do you know he didn’t show up for a job?” Kanda looks annoyed. _Grumpy. He doesn’t like that Lavi knows more about what’s going on than he does._ Neah suggests.

Assuming that Kanda just doesn’t know, rather than isn’t telling.

“Assassination jobs are hardly common knowledge.” He continues.

“I have my ways,” Lavi offers a crooked grin. “And the other guys, the ones whose underling was assassinated by the Black Order, have started something. Leaving hints at all the best territories....offering money to try and bring down the Black Order-- that’d be your lack of papers mess, I bet, Yu. I think I know who Atkins was.” Lavi nods, completely convinced of his investigative prowess.

He looks to us, inviting the “Who did it?” questions that both Kanda and I don’t bother to ask. Lavi will go on regardless.

“Atkins was the assassin. But the other guys had him assassinated. The Black Order knew who Atkins was, of course, but wanted you to get the information so that no one could connect them.” He finishes slowly, confidently.

_That has a sort of messy logic to it, don’t you think? Messy and confused enough to be true...or a bad lie._

“You following me?” When neither of us congratulate him on his reasoning,Lavi’s happy smile melts into concern, like he just now realizes that Kanda is acting out of sorts. 

“Alma won’t get out of my head.” Kanda’s voice is quiet, almost a whisper. I’m surprised he said anything at all. 

Lavi is expressionless. He’s not surprised, but he’s not overly upset, either. His stillness might even suggest he’s started thinking of this new problem.

I decide to break the heavy silence. “Well Neah won’t get out of mine, so I suppose we’re even. I’ll tell you one thing, though.” Tim nestles in my hair.

Kanda looks at me, his expression softening. “Hm.”

“Yes, well,” stealing a look at his face, I shift awkwardly. “That is, if you listen to that person,” I fidget. “You should only pay mind if they have something useful to say. Otherwise, focus on something else. Anything you’re doing…?”

Lavi looks at me sideways. “Acceptance and commitment.” He observes. “So your zen meditation would probably help too.” That must be directed at Kanda.

It’s very strange to be talking about this to someone else. I remember Mana always told me to behave politely, and to _not. tell. Anyone._

“…so. You focus on what you’re doing? Like looking for information.” I continue.

Lavi nods slowly, and waves a hand at Kanda. “Yeah. So focus on the conversation.” He suggests, and I suspect he rarely gets complimented for his reasoning, but hopes against the odds.

I continue nodding a little. Trying to dredge up anything that might help him. A light, so to speak, turns on.

I should draw on _those_ times. From before, when the hauntings near drove me mad.

“And it doesn’t help to yell at them. Just be…polite…and maybe listen to music. With headphones.” I add quickly. But that’s as much as I can say. After all, it only sometimes works.

Lavi decides not to say much about that, and continues, “I figured out who he was.” He looks at Kanda. “…er. Kanda. You get me?”

“I’m not sick.” He says stubbornly.

I feel my face flush. “Yes, Kanda.” I agree. But he might think I am.

“But it wouldn’t be bad if you were…just…something else to manage.” Lavi says soothingly, glancing at me again.

Great. But he doesn’t seem to be making a big deal. That, I guess…is nice.

“Anyways. You listening? It was probably them that did it. Them as in the guys who employed the underling that Atkins killed.”

Lavi is altogether uninterested in the case after he’s unlocked the main mystery. I can tell by the way he starts to look elsewhere, for lues about Kanda’s state, or perhaps even about me.

He gestures slowly with his hands. “Case solved. Yu?”

When still no one says anything, Lavi waves a hand in front of Kanda’s face.

Kanda slaps the hand aside, grumbling. “So what? Moyashi tells Lenalee. And? The police won’t care. They’d just as soon arrest us for hiring a murder or something.”

He makes a good point.

I bite my lip, and nod. “Probably.” All hope of clearing my name flickers away. I can’t risk telling the police, not without implementing the Black Order, and thus Kanda.

 _Invite him over._ Neah suggests with a smile. _The police can’t make arrests without any evidence…so make the most of the situation._

So that’s what I do.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> [Random Book rec to ease your curiosity: read "The White Cat" by Holly Black for action. For insane-and-lovely narrators, read "The Drowning Girl," though the lead is female, and decidedly not Allen...]
> 
> Also, inspired by and loosely based off of "The Windup Girl" (a finished, and utterly amazing book) by Paolo Bacigalupi.


End file.
